Guardians of Treasures Untold
by nefret24
Summary: CHAPTER 12 UP! Bochra's back; Marguerite and Roxton find themselves in the middle of a feast and a Druid power play... Please RR.
1. Part One: The Doomed Picnic

The Guardians of Treasures Untold

Author: Nefret24

Disclaimer: The Lost World and all its inhabitants (and those who have been just visiting for the past three seasons) do not belong to me. They are the property of Newline, the Over-the-Hill Gang, Coote-Hayes, and Telescene. Not to mention Guy Muhally, who started all this Celtic stuff in the first place. :P 

Category: An M/R Adventure

Spoilers: Out of Time, The Secret, Tapestry, Legacy, Trapped, and Heart of the Storm. 

Author's Notes: This little ditty takes place in the end of Season Three between Trapped and HOTS post "I Love Yous" and pre- climatic separation Just clearing up something that Roxton said in HOTS that bugged me- he didn't know before about the "reincarnation" part of Marguerite's Druid connection; he didn't even remember Bochra at the end of OOT 

This is for Carolyn's fourth TLW FanFix Challenge. Thanks to Leahna for the paragraph and the added inspiration. ;)

Please read and review!! All forms of commentary are accepted at nefret_24@hotmail.com. 

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PART ONE

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"_Serpens aut draco qui caudam devoravit._ They guard the treasures: the tree of knowledge in the Garden of Eden, the apples of the Hesperides, the golden fleece They're the serpents or dragons that the ancient Egyptians painted in a circle, with their tail in their mouth to indicate that they came from a single thing and were self-sufficient. Sleepless guardians, proud and wise. Hermetic dragons that kill the unworthy and allow themselves to be seduced only by one who has fought according to the rules. Guardians of the lost word: the magic formula that opens eyes and makes one the equal of God." ~ Arturo Perez-Reverte, "The Club Dumas"

"Your ways of being are wondrous and mysterious. They are unique and particular to you. I would know you anywhere." ~ Maya Angelou

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Absolute silence reigned. No screech of birds, no monkey chatter, no dinosaur roars, no trickle of water, not even the gentlest whisper of the wind. The only sound was the muffled crunch of his own footsteps. In the lush, vivid jungle, the quiet was anomalous and sent an eerie chill racing down his spine. A sudden loud crack- so intense he could feel it in his bones- reverberated across the plateau. He turned, instinctively knowing where the sound had originated. Terror grabbed his stomach as he muttered, "the treehouse," and took off in a dead run.

It was no use, though. They caught up with him, wrenching his staff from his hands as he raised it to crack their skulls, a vain attempt at a last stand. There were too many of them and help was too far off. He was already tired from the long journey and couldn't continue much longer, not with what he had already sustained. 

"This is not over," he croaked through a parched throat, and after seeing the nearest one raise a club, closed his eyes and succumbed to oblivion.

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"Can this day get any better?" Marguerite Krux surprised herself as she felt the well-worn phrase pass her lips and found that she actually meant it, sarcasm aside. It had been a wonderful day- by plateau standards, anyhow.

Lord John Roxton, who sat across from her on their picnic blanket, raised an eyebrow at this and grinned. "Why, Marguerite, I think that was sincere."

"Scared you too, huh?" she laughed it off, looking in the opposite direction at the rippling stream.

"Just affirmed an theory I've been forming," he chuckled back, stroking her idle hand resting in her lap.

"You? With a theory? Ye gods, and I thought Challenger was bad enough," she placed her free hand artistically on her brow, the portrait of suffering. "Care to share it with me?"

"I don't think you hate this place as much as you say," he said in reply, suddenly all seriousness.

She laughed, but the sound was harsh and forced. "Roxton, you're imagining things."

"Am I? Can you honestly say that this place doesn't have its merits? Look at this!" he waved a hand at their picturesque picnic spot. "You can't find a spot like this in London!"

"No- you can find real streets instead of messy trails, solid brick buildings at ground level, and civilization free from cannibals, dinosaurs, trogs, ape-men, time-portals"

"I'm sorry I brought it up," he muttered under his breath.

"Serves you right for theorizing without collecting all your evidence first," she said curtly and stood up, out of his grasp. The mood, so pleasant a few minutes before, wasn't nearly so nice anymore. She made her way to the water's edge and began to splash some water onto her face.

Roxton sighed at another missed opportunity. Though they had grown immeasurably closer in the past couple weeks, ever since their harrowing experience trapped in the cave, she was still the same skittish and moody Marguerite. They managed to go off on their own without receiving the same raised eyebrows from their housemates, but so far as revealing to them the very real nature of their relationship, the two remained daunted. How had Marguerite put it? "I never perform in public." 

But here they were, all on their lonesome, away from Finn and Veronica and Challenger, who were also out and about somewhere nearby, helping to gather food to stock their supply closets at the treehouse for the upcoming week. The days were becoming increasingly hot and uncomfortable and today is no exception, he thought, squinting up at the blazing sun. The short forging expedition that usually only took a few hours had exhausted the greater part of the day. Thank goodness Challenger had been considerate enough to realize that the enforced togetherness of the treehouse had been a bit more than stifling to the two lovers and had graciously allowed them to go off on an afternoon break, all by themselves.

He stood up and dusted himself off, refusing to accept Marguerite's precarious change of mood. He was going to make the most of this time- she could too if only she would listen for two seconds

He approached her but said nothing, content to just watch as she ran her hands up and down her bare arms, slicking them down with the cool water, her shirt having been tossed aside in the heat.

"See something you like?" she asked, arching an eyebrow.

"Enchanted."

"Really. Well, isn't that your hard luck. The shops aren't open for business today, gov'nor," she returned harshly, not looking at him.

"Hm perhaps an exception can be made?" he asked hopefully, taking off his hat and wiping his brow.

"What exactly did you have in mind?" she asked, twisting her lips thoughtfully.

"Well, maybethis?" he said, as he bent his head down to kiss her. She held her head back and maintained that strategic couple of inches away. He stopped his advance, questioning, asking permission. 

And then she grinned widely. "I accept," she said triumphantly, pulling away from him with a splash.

Only then did he realize that she had taken his hat from his grasp and was laughing merrily at his bewildered expression.

"Can I please have my hat?"

"No, it's mine now. An apology gift. It's the least you could do."

"Ah, I see. And would your Highness like anything else? The shirt off my back?" he asked, plotting his revenge. He approached her again, this time with both hands up and ready for anything. "How about a shower?" he asked, before administering a light spritz of water onto her face.

So maybe it was a splash, he thought grudgingly. It had done nothing to cool her off but rather the reverse. Angry at getting her precious outfit wet, she sought retribution by thoroughly drenching him, never mind that in the process of splashing him she also managed to get herself quite damp as well. She ended up having a gay ole time, laughing at his misguided efforts to persuade her to stop.

"Marguerite, I mean it, this isn't funny anymore!" Roxton protested, his hands in front of his face, defending himself from the splashes of water headed in his direction.

Marguerite only laughed harder and continued with determination to get Lord John Roxton soaking wet. It was more difficult than it seemed, for she had to administer his impromptu shower with only one hand. The other was still holding his hat.

"Just give me back the hat and I promise--" he tried again, holding out a hand.

"Too late!" she giggled, and let him have it. 

Water dribbled down his face, his eyes squinting through water-laden lashes at the figure in front of him. Shaking his head, he managed to slough off some of the water, but in the long run it did him little service. He was dripping, head to toe. 

Finally, she remitted, and stood triumphantly in front of him, turning his hat over in her hands.

"You look like a drowned dog," she giggled.

"You look-" he began to retort and stopped, his breath caught in his throat. Her camisole was molded to her chest, her trousers heavy with water, outlined every curve. Her hair fell in tumbled masses on her shoulders, and her eyes were bright with mirth. He couldn't remember when he had ever beheld a sight more beautiful in his life. 

"Stunning," he finished hoarsely, and made a move to approach her.

She stepped backwards, eyeing him warily and clutching the hat now behind her back. "Oh no you don't, Lord Roxton; no amount of compliments will make me give up my trophy today."

"You sure about that?" he said huskily, his hands now on her shoulders as he looked down at her flushed face.

She licked her lips and smiled wickedly up at him, extending her long white neck. Now having the upper hand, she seemed to have regained her playfulness. "Well, I _suppose_ I could be open to persuasion."

He chuckled and bent his head down to kiss her. She returned the kiss eagerly, reaching one hand up to caress his cheek. His arms snaked around her and made a dash for the hat, now loose in her other hand.

Her eyes opened wide and she immediately broke the kiss, wrenching the hat from his grasp again and began to wriggle out of his embrace. Taking a step backwards, her boot landed on a slippery rock and Marguerite found herself falling backwards, hat and all, into the water.

Roxton began to laugh. After all that trouble not to get wet and she ends up in it anyhow! He was about to say so before he noticed something was definitely wrong.

Marguerite wasn't getting up and was being slightly jostled by the current. He grabbed a hold of her waist and hoisted her up, one side of her face red with blood.

"Oh God, Marguerite!" Hauling up his precious burden, he moved to dry land and laid her down on the small shore, smoothing the hair away from her face. He began wiping the blood away with his sleeve and let out a relieved sigh when he saw the small rent above her eyebrow. It wasn't that bad, most of what he had wiped away was water.

She began to stir and cursed several times. "Dammit, Roxton, now I'm soaked!"

Roxton's profuse apologies died on his lips. He returned anger for anger. "Well, if you hadn't stole my bloody hat--"

"Some gentleman you are in trying to steal it back," she retorted caustically. 

She slowly rose to a standing position and began to squeeze out the ends of her hair, before flinging the bulk of it behind her shoulders. 

Picking up their rifles and handing one to her, he asked concerned, "Are you okay?"

She reached a hand up to touch her wound and winced, pulling back fingertips marked with blood. "I'll live. George can fix me up when we get back to the treehouse."

"Well, let's get back then. I'm sure they beat us home," he said resolutely, waiting for Marguerite to climb up the shore. 

She gathered up their gear quickly, shoving everything into her pack and glaring, stomped past him. "Lead on, my lady," he smirked at her back.

Disconcerted again, she turned quickly on her heel and followed the path they had made. Two harmless words shouldn't make her stomach flip over like that. They had walked about half of the way home when Marguerite began to feel uneasy. She had a sneaking suspicion that they were being followed but everytime she turned around to look, there was no one there. Compounded with her throbbing head and a slight dizziness, she began to doubt herself to the point where she even went so far as to ask Roxton if he saw anyone in the nearby underbrush. He shrugged it off, looking at her as if she had indeed lost her mind and kept his quick pace towards the treehouse. She kept her distance and her silence from him for another good half-hour before quietly asking for a short rest. He complied with a nod of his head.

Marguerite found a suitable rock and sat down, deep in thought. Roxton was leaving her to deal with her own temper and she didn't know whether to love him or hate him for it. It frustrated her to no end. She looked up and saw that he was watching her out of the corners of his eye as he leaned against a tree, his rifle loose in his hands.

Damn that man! He really is too attractive for his own good. It's horribly unfair that he can stand there like that and make me less mad simply because of a muscular frame and handsome face. Determined to keep her grudge a little while longer, she rose abruptly and moved away to find another rock. 

As she scanned the area for a passable seat, she stumbled. Cursing she turned back to see what had tripped her and involuntarily started.

"Oh my God." On the jungle floor lay a man whose brown robes were horribly discolored with an ominous red stain spreading along his stomach. His head bore the tell-tale signs of bludgeoning and as she knelt down and took the man's head in her lap, she began to shake uncontrollably.

She knew him.

She tried to hail Roxton but she only managed to make a noise that was half strangled cry and half shriek. It was enough; in seconds he appeared by her side.

"Marguerite!" he cried, concerned, seeing only her, sitting on the ground. As he approached he saw the man. "Is he alive?" he asked hoarsely, kneeling beside the two.

"Barely," she croaked, her eyes brimming with tears. "Can we- will he make it back- to the treehouse?"

"We can try," Roxton replied grimly, handing her the rifle and lifting the man into his arms with a grunt.

Marguerite scrambled to her feet behind Roxton. She was moving at a furiously fast pace, and Roxton struggled to keep up, weighted down as he was.

Finally, he called for a rest a couple miles from the treehouse. Marguerite went to the unconscious man's side. "He's still out," she said in a small voice.

"With a knock on the head like that," Roxton shrugged, taking a swig of his water canteen. He offered it to Marguerite, who just shook her head abstractedly.

She was busy pushing the man's hair off his forehead, her fingertips lightly brushing his temple like a caress. Roxton suddenly felt a stab of jealousy. Who was this man that Marguerite was moved to tears by his presence, that she would give him attentions such as these? She had never shown such concern over other native people they had found in similar dire straits. 

The man seemed common enough, with coarse brown hair with streaks of gray and a finely clipped beard framing the lower half of his face. His dark brown robes were generic enough. Whoever he was, he had certainly offended somebody, thought Roxton as he eyed the man's wound, the dark red patch on the robe slowly growing.

"Please, Roxton, we have to get him back," she said in a worried voice. She scanned the surrounding jungle warily, frightened. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end. What the hell was going on? She tried to think but squinted with the pain of her aching head. Bloody hell, she thought, as Roxton lifted the man back onto his shoulders.

Marguerite hurried on, propelled forward both by the urgency to help the man and her own growing uneasiness. She looked back over her shoulder and saw Roxton laboring hard some distance behind her underneath the weight of his charge. Does he even remember the whole thing? How am I ever going to explain all this?

She reached the treehouse first and called out in a breathless voice. "Send the elevator down! And be quick about it!"

Finn rushed to the balcony first. "Hold your horses, Marguerite. We just got back. What's the big rush?" she asked, raising a skeptical eyebrow as Veronica joined her to look down on the heiress.

"We have a man who's hurt," she shouted back pointing at Roxton, just coming into view out of the trees.

"I'll be right down," Veronica said, already moving to the elevator. As she went down she called out to Finn, "Get Challenger and the first aid kit."

"Never dull 'round here," Finn muttered, and did as she was instructed.

Roxton and Veronica came up in the elevator first, with the man slung between them. They laid him down in the now empty bedroom Malone had occupied and Challenger was hot on their heels.

"What happened to him?" he asked, taking the man's wrist and searching for a pulse.

"I have no idea," Roxton said, mopping his brow, and moving over to the side as Veronica left the room to get a fresh basin of water. "We found him on our way back. Looks like he rubbed someone the wrong way."

"You could say that. This is a pretty nasty wound," Challenger said, lifting up the fabric of the man's robe. "A knife or spear did this, I would presume. Not to mention the head injuryHe's still breathing, at least," Challenger sighed, his mouth set in a grim line.

Finn entered the room with the first aid kit and promptly handed it over to Challenger. She eyed the stranger warily and was about to speak when she was rudely pushed to the side by Marguerite, forcing her way into the room.

"Is he going to be alright?" she asked, the concern evident in her voice.

"Let's hope so," Veronica added, setting the basin on the bed next to Challenger.

Challenger set to work to assess the damages the man had incurred and prepared sutures for his stomach wound, while Veronica and Marguerite, each taking one side of the bed, set themselves about cleaning up both areas in question.

Roxton had retreated into the kitchen. He stood at the table, a full glass of water in front of him. His throat was parched; he should have drunk its entire contents in one long gulp. His back, arms and legs tingled with a slight soreness and yet he did not sit down. All he could think about was the man and Marguerite's peculiar reaction towards him.

He had liked to think that the greater part of her secrets were behind them now. She had said that she loved him, didn't she? He knew about Xian, and Parsifal too many gaps were left. He gripped the sides of the glass and with one fluid stroke, raised it to his lips. She knows who he is, he thought grimly, contemplating the mostly empty glass. 

Finn appeared behind him. "I think I was kinda getting in the way in there," she said with a sigh and flopped down into a chair. "So other than finding the half dead old guy, anythin' interesting happen?"

Oh, God, he thought, inwardly rolling his eyes. She's almost as clueless as Malone was. "Nope. Sorry to disappoint," he replied curtly.

Finn gave him a quizzical stare and opened her mouth as if to continue when Veronica emerged from the room. Roxton turned and raised his eyebrows.

"Challenger's almost done. The guy's been pretty lucky- we think he's gonna be alright."

Roxton sighed in relief and Veronica smiled benevolently at him. Then with an askance look at Finn, she took the younger girl by the shoulder. "We should go out and get some more plants for that botanical salve though. We used almost all of it up and that man, whoever he is, is certainly going to need more of it if he hopes to get better."

"I'll go get my crossbow," Finn said eagerly and dashed out of the room.

"And some torches- in case it gets too dark," Veronica called to her quickly retreating form.

Roxton felt a grin slide up his face and brought two hands to his face to rub his tired eyes. Even without Finn around, this night was going to be long, he had a feeling.

"Roxton, what's wrong? What happened out there?" Veronica asked in a quiet voice full of concern. "Marguerite's got a nasty cut on her head"

"That's nothing. Nothing."

"That's what she said and I don't believe her either," she said eyeing him curiously. "She waved me and Challenger off"

"It's not that serious- she just, um, tripped. Had nothing to do with the man."

"Did you see who attacked him?"

"No. That's what bothers me. He was just lying there- in the middle of the jungle, the middle of nowhere really. No animals, no people. Just him."

"Odd," she twisted her lips in thought. "There was no trail?"

"Just his footsteps- not too steady and not far from where he collapsed."

"He couldn't have traveled far with a wound like that."

"No," he agreed, his mouth set in a firm line. 

Veronica inspected his face critically. He was unusually suspicious of their guest and seemed as if he was coiled up, ready to spring for attack. Roxton had always been uncommonly protective of them, even more so since they lost Summerlee and Malone, but the stranger was lucky he was alive- left alone to die in the jungle- where's the danger inherent in that? The man wasn't even conscious yet. Marguerite had said the man had been out since they discovered them

Ah. Marguerite. That's what this is really about, I bet, Veronica thought. 

"Marguerite's still in there with him. Won't leave his side. You think she knows something she's not telling us?"

Roxton turned away abruptly as Finn reappeared, armed and ready for plant gathering. 

"Vee, you ready?"

"In a minute. Roxton, look at me," she ordered, reaching out a hand to touch his forearm. "God knows I've suspected that woman of every dirty trick in the book. But," she said with a wry smile, "she's one of us and deserves the chance to explain herself- if she even has anything to explain."

Roxton turned and smiled down at the blond. She knew how to get at the meat of things, didn't she? "It's harder than it sounds."

"I'm sure you can manage," she replied and with an affectionate squeeze, she left to join an impatient Finn in the elevator.

The elevator rumbled down as Challenger exited the bedroom, wiping his hands on a dirty scrap of cloth. "There's nothing more I can do," he said professionally and lowered himself into a seat. "If he makes it through tonight, I'd say he has a very good chance of a full recovery."

"Well, George, I'd say he was pretty lucky to have stumbled into your capable hands," chuckled Roxton, clapping the older gentleman on the back.

"I daresay you're right. I suggest that we take turns watching over him- he isn't running a fever and hopefully we can keep it that way. Marguerite said she'd take the first shift- by the by, see if you can convince her to let me look at that bump of hers, just in case," he added over his shoulder, as Roxton made his way towards the bedroom. He stopped right outside the curtain and watched her from the shadows.

Marguerite sat by the bed of the fallen man, tossing a used rag into a nearby basin. Propping up her chin with her hands, she stared intently at the man's face. He had aged so much since she had seen him last, ever so much more than two years. 

What was it that he had said? That he was traveling to a different time, a better time for him and his people. Some good ole days, she thought, twisting her lips into a grimace. She could still see his blood on her hands when she had found him earlier that day. Shaking off a chill, she sighed and took the man's nearest hand into hers.

"Bochra, what happened to you?" she whispered. 

To her consummate surprise, he replied in a raspy voice. "Stabbed."

Almost tripping over her own feet, she inelegantly rose to her feet and grabbed the nearest pitcher of water. With shaking hands, she poured some into a glass, spilling a great deal in the process. She held the cup to his lips, his eyes opening half way. 

"How do you feel?" she asked once she had removed the glass.

"Wretched."

"Better alive and in pain than dead. You had us pretty worried there for a while," she said with a smile, before turning to redeposit the glass on the dresser.

"Us? Oh yes, your friends. I presume I am at your treehouse?"

"Yes," she replied and then turning back, continued in a quiet voice, "I thought I would never see you again."

"I suppose that I came as a bit of a shock," he said, trying to chuckle. As pain registered on his face, he soon stopped. "I would not have returned if it was not necessary."

Marguerite's eyes began to glisten with tears. "I can't Bochra, I'm not what you assume"

He shook his head vigorously, or tried to, but was mostly unsuccessful- the movement being altogether too painful. "You may have forgotten the old ways but they are always a part of you."

He seemed ready to continue when she silenced him with a raised hand. "No. No, we're not going to do this tonight, do you hear me?" she said, her voice rising with anger. Closing her eyes briefly, she continued in a more controlled voice. "You've had a rough day and need your rest. We'll decide the fate of the world tomorrow."

He closed his eyes and inclined his head slightly to demonstrate his compliance. She sighed and shook her head, approaching the bed one last time to lean over and place a kiss on his bruised forehead. 

She hurried out of the room and right into Roxton. "How is he?" he asked gruffly, having heard all that had transpired between her and the man Bochra.

"He'll do, for now," she replied with the same curt tone and brushed past him to go out on the balcony. 

He pulled back the curtain slightly with his finger, seeing the recumbent man, obviously now asleep. He drew his hand away quickly, as if it had been burned, and curled his fingers into a fist. He could not wait for her explanations any longer.

He found her leaning over the rail, looking out over the jungle tinted with the orange hues of the setting sun. He emulated her pose and, not looking at her, attempted to hide the anger rising in his throat. "Has he gained consciousness yet?"

"No."

That flat denial twisted in his stomach like a knife. For Marguerite's sake, she was only too glad that he did not look at her. She was struggling with every ounce of her composure and the strain was beginning to tell. The throbbing in her head didn't help matters, either. 

Her eyes began to fill and she turned away from him, rubbing her forehead self-consciously. He'll think I'm crazy. He didn't want to go along with Bochra's plan the last time- and god knows what I'll be asked to do now. Obviously the stakes are higher than before and who knows how high? She couldn't let him risk himself again for her and she knew that if he had even the slightest inkling that she would be in danger, there'd be no stopping him, the stubborn man. The stubborn, foolish valiant, wonderful man She had to put distance between them before she became foolish too.

"Marguerite," he said, his voice deep with emotion as he shot out a hand to stop her flight. He gripped her upper arm and drew her back to him with a force he had not intended.

"John! This isn't the place for that!" she protested, struggling to break herself free, her eyes darting behind him for any sign of Challenger, Finn or Veronica. She didn't need to make herself a fool in front of them; her performance so far with Roxton was bad enough.

"What is it this time, Marguerite? Who is that man and what does he mean to you?" he said, loudly this time, his other arm taking her other shoulder holding her tightly. As soon as the words left his mouth and he beheld Marguerite's expressions of shock, pain, and anger, he loosened his grip and felt ashamed.

Marguerite placed both hands against his chest and shoved hard, sending him back up against the rail. "I don't believe it. Lord John Roxton," she intoned sarcastically. "Green with envy for a half dead elder of the tribe. Won't my journal entry for today be exciting? Yet another horrible misdeed another nasty little secret " she spat. "and be still my beating heart, the man's still jealous!" 

She angrily stomped her way to the doorway when he finally spoke in a soft, controlled voice. "You know him. You can't deny that." 

She stopped in her tracks, not turning around. "Yes," she replied, raising a hand to quickly wipe away a tear that had begun to run down her cheek. "I can't deny that."

"You kissed him."

She turned at this remark, surprise writ on her face. "On the forehead. Maybe if you had joined us instead of skulking in the shadows you would have gotten a better view," she added nastily, curling her lip.

He winced and held up both hands. "I'm sorry I shouldn't have I- I'm sorry."

"As well you should be," she haughtily replied, folding her arms across her chest. She shot him a sideways glare and her heart instantly began to melt. If ever there was a more penitent face or more handsome

"Oh John" she murmured, her arms falling to her sides and her eyes feeling dangerously full again.

One step was all it took. His arms wrapped around her and held her tight, his embrace warm and secure. She buried her head in his shoulder and squeezed her eyes shut, knowing that now tears were inevitable, the defensive walls were down and the story would have to be told.

She raised a tearful face to his and he kissed her tenderly. "I'm sorry if I hurt you. And even sorrier I doubted you," he said softly.

She managed a faint smile and rubbed at her eyes. "John- sit down. You deserve to hear this," she said in a small voice, turning away towards the window seat.

"Marguerite, I know you have your secrets and I realize I'm being completely selfish, but if it wouldn't be too much oh. You _are_ going to tell me?"

"Yes, you silly idiot. Sit down," she repeated and this time, he complied. "The man's name, which you no doubt overheard," she said wryly, lifting up her head to see him turn slightly pink at the statement, "is Bochra. I met him two years ago."

"Two years but you were here. On the plateau"

"You met him too. And Malone. Though I'm pretty sure neither you nor Ned ever remembered it."

"Malone?" Roxton repeated, stunned. "I don't understand. How could we have forgotten everything and yet you remember? What about Challenger and Veronica?"

"They didn't come with us for that trip. They were somewhat preoccupied: Veronica had found a baby in the wilderness and Summerlee" here Roxton registered complete shock on his face again- "along with Challenger had set about to find its parents."

"I do remember hearing tell of **that**," he chuckled, putting his arm around her shoulders. Summerlee had talked of the apemen parents during several evening discussions with fascination and awe.

"I thought you would," Marguerite replied, a grin on her face mirroring his as she remembered their dear lost companion. "Do you also remember that it took us an unusually long time to make it back to the treehouse from that quarry? And did you ever wonder why?"

Roxton shook his head as he felt his face grow warm for a second time. There had been something odd about that trip and he had never questioned it. How could he have been so blind?

"So we met him then?"

"Yes. He's he's a kind of Bochra's a Druid."

"A what?" Roxton's eyebrows went sky high as he chuckled again.

"A Druid. A leader of a group of Druids actually," Marguerite added with a sigh. God, it sounds even more crazy than it is.

"A Druid?"

"Yessss," she hissed impatiently. 

Roxton looked at her thoughtfully for a moment. "The cave. That's why you had the bad feelings about that cave, isn't it? You've been there before!"

"No! No. Well, at least I don't think I have Oh hell. Look: according to Bochra, and I'm not saying this is true, but according to him"

She paused, trying to find any way to make it sound less ridiculous as Roxton's impatience grew. "Come on, Marguerite according to him what?"

"He thinks I'm the reincarnation of one of his priestesses. Morrighan."

"You? A Druid priestess?" he echoed incredulously.

"That's what you said the last time."

"Excuse me?"

"You didn't believe it before either. Malone and I outvoted you into accompanying us to retrieve the lost emeralds of the tribe."

"Wait a minute, let me get this straight: you had to try and persuade me to help a Druid sect get their precious gems back while you handed them over on a silver platter?"

"I didn't expect you to understand before- why should now be any different?" she said bitterly, folding her arms across her chest.

"I'm sorry, Marguerite. That was unkind and unfair of me " he said tenderly, placing two light fingers underneath her chin to lift her gaze to his so that she could see the sincerity in his apology. "Why should you believe him? What proof can he offer you that what he says is true?"

"He knows about my birthmark. Knew exactly where it was and what it looked like. Ripped my shirt to confirm it- that's not how it sounds, John," she added, having seen his lips curl into a horrid frown that boded no good for Bochra. 

Roxton unclenched his teeth. He stared at her for a long moment. It was ridiculous and utterly absurd and yet somehow he knew every bloody word was true. He saw her eyes glisten and her chin wavered a bit- she doesn't think I believe her.

"We'll get through this. Whatever this is," he added, stepping closer to her. "We'll get through this together."

His words washed over her and she felt suddenly secure and warm. "Together," she nodded weakly, looking up at him with amazement. Would he ever fail to astound her?

He brushed the hair back from her forehead lightly with his fingertips, and frowned upon seeing the now purpling bruise. "You know, you should really let Challenger or Veronica look at that."

"I'm not a child. It's only a little scratch. Let them poke and prod Bochra- he's the one who needs it," she said, wrinkling her nose.

"Does it hurt much?"

"A little," she muttered, and tried to shrug it off. Suddenly she felt very very tired. "I think I'll stay out here a little while longer. Fresh air and all that."

"I can stay with you if you like."

"No, no. That's okay. Go sit with Bochra. I- I'll be fine," she said reassuringly. She just needed to think things through, without virile distractions and her ever-present headache.

"I'll be just in the next room, if you need me," he said, placing a tender kiss on her forehead before he left. 

Marguerite stared out into the night. So quiet A chill ran down her spine and she began to rub her arms. How had it been so ungodly hot mere hours ago and now so cool? Her feelings of apprehension hadn't waned. What was it she feared? Sure, Bochra had given her the Chosen One spiel before but she had never experienced such horrible forebodings

No. Wait, she had. Only once before, trapped in a cave with no way out

A rustling in the trees made her start and she scanned the surrounding jungle warily. What the hell was that? She squinted hard but saw nothing. Veronica had said something about going out for plants, but hadn't she come back yet? 

She rubbed her hands over her face and sighed to herself. God help me, I'm losing it. She was about to turn from the rail when she heard it again, seeing a slight movement in the trees out of the corner of her eye.

"Who's there?" she called out authoritatively.

No reply. 

"Veronica?"

"Yes?" The young blond appeared behind her, a dishrag in her hands. 

Marguerite opened and closed her mouth like a fish. So it wasn't her. I'm just going crazy. Fine. Fine fine fine. "Uh, nothing. Just wondered if you were back, that's all."

Veronica shot the older woman a questioning look. Looking pointedly at her cut forehead, she replied kindly, "Maybe you should take it easy- you've had a hard day. Why don't you get some sleep?"

Marguerite looked down her nose at her. "I. Am. Fine. I just need to check on something first," she said, stomping her way to the elevator, grabbing a rifle, and pulling the down lever with more force than was strictly necessary. 

Stepping off the elevator, Marguerite raised the rifle to her shoulder and started off in the direction from which she had heard the noise.

Absolute silence. 

It was unnerving. How was it that after all those sleepless nights, kept awake by mating monkeys, birds, bats, and all kinds of other nasty creations of nature that liked to keep absurd hours, that she couldn't feel secure without them?

She raised the gate and took a tenative few steps past the fence. Then she saw it- only the barest, faintest outline of something, lurking, waiting in the lush underbrush.

"I can see you there. Come on out or I swear I'll shoot!"

Veronica, who heard the brunette's raised voice, came to the balcony just in time to see her rifle shots go off and watch horrified as she was out cold by something, invisible to the human eye.

TBC


	2. Part One: Asleep Awake

The Guardians of Treasures Untold 

Part One: 2/10

Author: Nefret24

Disclaimers and notes, see part 1.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"Marguerite!" Veronica cried frantically. She raced to the elevator and reached it just as Challenger emerged from his lab and Roxton dashed into the living room, hurriedly snapping his straps into place.

"What is it?" he asked concerned, grabbing his rifle.

"Something's out there and it just attacked Marguerite," Veronica said, hitting the down lever with a considerable degree of force after Roxton lept into it to join her.

"She isn't moving," Challenger called from the balcony above. The two peered up at him, and saw that he was intent upon the surrounding jungle, training a rifle at the area near the fallen woman. "I don't see anything!"

Warily, Veronica and Roxton made their way to the edge of the fence. Veronica's knives were in her hands. Roxton held onto his rifle so hard that his knuckles turned white. As he tried to train every sense on the surrounding underbrush, all he could think of was Marguerite, lying there, so very still He hadn't even heard her scream for help.

He reached the gate and he couldn't stand it anymore. He rushed to her side, unheedful of any watching enemies. "Marguerite," he whimpered, half raising her into his arms. Her forehead was already beginning to bruise an angry purple. He clumsily shifted his arms and felt for a pulse.

"Is she?" asked Veronica tenatively, her eyes never leaving their surroundings.

"No- no, thank god," he managed, squeezing the fallen woman with relief. "But her pulse is weak. We need to get her upstairs."

"Go. I'll watch your back," Veronica replied with a ghost of a smile, still concerned about the presence of her attackers. 

Roxton lifted Marguerite into his arms and walked back to the elevator. Her head was bleeding and he could feel her warm blood seeping through the thin fabric of his shirt. His gag reflex kicked it and he manfully suppressed it, crinkling his brow with worry. 

Challenger had rightly sent Finn about fetching first aid supplies. They were ready when he stepped off the elevator with his precious burden. He laid her down on her own bed and stepped back to allow the scientist access.

"Head trauma," he muttered, and began to tear off strips of gauze. 

"Will she be alright?" Finn asked, watching him wide-eyed and grabbing another roll of gauze to emulate his example.

"I truly hope so though two such sharp blows to the head, after hardly any recovery time" he grimaced and shrugged. Looking up from his work, he saw Roxton's concerned face and quickly amended his statement. "I have never known a more hard-headed woman than Marguerite Krux. She'll be fine."

Roxton's worries, however, did not seem to be alleviated by his little joke. Self-conscious, Challenger cleared his throat loudly and began to dress her wound. 

He finished in silence, with Finn, Veronica and Roxton anxiously watching his movements. "There," he said, cutting the last strip. "Not nearly as fashionable as she would like, I'm sure, but it'll do it's job," he said, with forced cheer. "Come on now. Marguerite needs her sleep and so do we- I'm sure she'll be better in the morning," he said, ushering Finn and Veronica out of the room. 

Roxton remained by the bed, immovable. Challenger stopped in the doorway, "John, don't worry. She'll be fine. Do try and get some sleep."

Roxton nodded dumbly at the professor but did not take his eyes away from her face. He didn't even notice when Challenger slowly shut the door behind him. 

Eventually, he reached out and took one limp hand into his own. "Please," he said to whomever, or whatever, could listen. "Please" he broke off, his voice rasping and choked.

When Challenger entered the room in the morning, that's how he found him: still at her side, haggard and worn, his eyes bleary with care and lack of sleep. Feeling slightly awkward, he coughed loudly to announce his presence. 

Roxton looked up, bewildered at Challenger's seemingly miraculous sudden appearance and nodding, stepped a scant distance away from the bed to allow the other man access.

"How is she?" 

Challenger paused before replying, "She's still out of it. Her pulse seems strong enough still," he added, trying to remain optimistic. "All we have to do is wait."

Roxton's face became more grim. Still, nodding, he felt obligated to ask Challenger about the man what had Marguerite said his name was? Bochra? "And how is he?"

"Oh, that's right, our other invalid. I had quite forgotten him," Challenger said with a forced chuckle. "I suppose I ought to look in on him too."

"I'm coming with you."

When Challenger and Roxton approached the door to the spare bedroom, however, they heard low voices talking. Opening the door revealed Finn gesturing animatedly to the man who was now awake.

"My, my, my. Well, it's good to see you have regained consciousness," Challenger said, looking at the man's bandages. 

"Welcome back to the land of the living Bochra," Roxton said pointedly watching the man's every move.

Instead of being shocked by his knowledge or offended by his tone, Bochra merely smiled at Roxton knowingly and replied, "It is good she confided in you. We will need all the help we can get."

"We? Who's we?" Finn asked suspicious, darting her eyes back and forth between the two men. 

"My people," Bochra replied with a kind smile. "The Druids."

Challenger and Finn raised their eyebrows in astonishment.

"I don't remember you," Roxton said flatly, still glaring at the man.

"You weren't supposed to. Only the Chosen One can recall memories of the Other Realm."

"The Chosen One? What are you talking about?" Challenger asked. 

"You mean Marguerite, don't you? That's why she was all funny yesterday!" Finn guessed, wide-eyed.

"Roxton, what is going on?" Challenger exclaimed.

"That's exactly what I'd like to know. Who attacked Marguerite, Bochra?" Roxton practically hissed at him.

"She was attacked?" he sat up quickly and gasped in pain. Challenger gently helped him lower himself but he had paled considerably. "Oh no. Is she alright?" he asked with genuine concern.

"We don't know yet," Challenger informed him.

"Oh no," he repeated again, his eyes welling with tears. 

"Who attacked her, Bochra? Was it the same men who attacked you? Answer me, goddammit!" Roxton shouted, towering over Bochra's bed. 

"It is the Shadow Men. They are not of your world but of mine. They came for me- for I would stand against their leader. You must keep them away from Marguerite," he said with terrified urgency, grabbing hold of Roxton's collar as if it were a lifeline. "She is our only hope."

"She could have been killed yesterday for helping you and your people," Roxton spat, ripping his hand from his collar. 

"It is her destiny. Hers, yours and mine. As it is theirs to kill her, the Chosen One" he trailed off, fainting.

Challenger assessed the patient and determined him to be okay, simply a case of overexertion. "John, what is going on here? I think we are all due an explanation"

"Yeah- how is Marguerite's destiny tied to that old guy?" Finn asked, hands on her hips. 

"I don't know, I-" Roxton began as Veronica rushed into the room.

"She's awake! But wait"

Bolting past Veronica expostulating, Roxton dashed into Marguerite's bedroom. 

Marguerite herself clutched the covers to her as he entered, consternation writ clear upon her face.

"Oh Marguerite, you're okay, I was so worried" Roxton began, trying to take her hand.

She snatched it away from him and held the covers closer, glaring at him.

"Marguerite?"

Narrowing her eyes, she licked her lips and spoke, "I do not know you, sir, but if you do not remove yourself from my bedchamber this very instant, you will regret it til the end of your days."

"Marguerite, this really isn't funny" he said, worry beginning to appear on his face.

"I should say it's not! Bedraggled, scruffy individuals barging in on sleeping ladies! You should be ashamed of yourself! I will count to three  
" she said warningly.

Roxton left just as she hurled a pitcher at him, yelling "three" as the door slammed.

Shooting a confused look at Veronica, she replied, "She's awake but she's lost her memory."

TBC


	3. Part One: What is Going On?

Guardians of Treasures Untold 

Part One: 3/10.

Author: Nefret24

Disclaimers and notes, see parts 1 & 2. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Marguerite Krux was at a loss for words. That occurred so rarely in her lifetime that if she wasn't already speechless, she should be rendered so out of sheer amazement. Here she was, in some wooden hut thing with apparently some very strange people. First there was that blond woman wearing next to nothing (thank goodness a look at her own attire afforded her with something half decent) and that scruffy looking individual just now. What in the blazes was going on?

It didn't help that her head hurt like hell. She gingerly fingered her temple and grimaced even at the contact between gauze and fingertip. It wasn't a hangover but she wished it was. She saw a mirror across the room and ever so slowly and carefully she made her way over to it. 

"Oh. My. God," she said hollowly, looking at the bruised and slightly bloody temple underneath a corner of her bandage. She scanned the dressing table, recognizing her own things. "I don't have nearly enough make-up for this," she muttered, feeling her head swim again. 

Shuffling awkwardly, she almost made it back to the bed. 

Almost. 

She felt as if the floor was moving erratically like a ship tossed by angry waves. Nausea overcame her and she suppressed the rising bile in her throat with an effort. Well, this is lovely, she thought, making no movements to get up.

"Marguerite?" she heard a voice call out, laced with concern, oddly distorted by her ringing ears. "Marguerite!"

"Marguerite!"

Lots of voices. Some male, some female. It just gets better and better, she thought, refusing to lift up her head from the floor. They all know me but _who are they_??

She felt herself being scooped up if she was a feather weight and through her hair and her mostly closed lids she could tell that it was the same man who had unceremoniously barged into her room before. He laid her down on the bed- very gently, Marguerite noted disconcerted, before stepping away and out of her limited field of vision.

A new man appeared, this one older with flaming red hair who began to move the hair out of her face and reassess the position of the bandage.

"How is she?" she heard a woman's voice ask.

"Well, her cut seems to be healing well enough but she'll need a few days rest before she can be fully active again." 

So the older man was a doctor? She considered him through her lashes. 

"Marguerite should enjoy breakfast in bed for a few days," a female voice chimed in- rather snidely, Marguerite thought.

"She- she didn't know me, George." It was the scruffy man talking. He sounded so forlorn. What am I to him? I've never met him before in my life, she thought, why the hell should I feel sorry for not knowing a stranger?

George, the doctor, replied in a murmur, "Two blows to the head, one after the other"

What the hell had happened to her? Her head began to throb more and more painfully as she waited for him to elaborate.

"So what? You're saying she has amnesia?" a different female's voice broke in.

"Head trauma has been known to lead to loss of memory" was all she heard before she passed out.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"Man, I don't believe this!" Finn said, pacing the living room of the treehouse. 

"Where is the implausibility?" Challenger said from his chair, flipping through one of Summerlee's medical journals. "Memory loss has been documented as a symptom"

"Yes, George, I believe we heard this before," sighed Veronica with a smile. 

"I mean, like, stuff like this can't happen all the time here, can it?" Finn asked, stopping and putting her hands on her hips. "Crazy old men being attacked, people losing their minds"

"This is a first, on both counts, Finn," said Challenger with all seriousness, still scanning the book.

Roxton said nothing from his seat on the balcony, merely looking out over the jungle below, his face etched with worry. 

"Roxton. Earth to Roxton?" a cup materialized in front of his face. He looked up at Finn. "Common, I've been standing here for, like, an hour. How 'bout some tea?" 

Looking back at the cup waving under his nose, its contents coming precariously close to flowing out over the sides, he muttered a "no, thank you," before resuming his former position.

She removed the cup but didn't leave. Instead, she yelled across the room, "He doesn't want the tea!"

Soon Veronica and Challenger appeared at his side as well. 

"Roxton? Would you ---"

"I don't want any bloody tea!" he bellowed harshly, whirling on them violently.

They recoiled, shocked but did not disperse. "Roxton, she's going to be okay," Veronica said in a soft voice. "All she needs is time."

Finn and Challenger nodded silently in agreement.

"She had no idea she, she practically jumped away from me with disgust " he held his head in his hands.

"I don't think it'll do anybody any good to hear what she called me," Veronica said, trying to keep her voice light. "It's not her well, it is her, just the **old** her."

"The _old_ her?" Finn asked curiously.

"Another time, Finn," Veronica said in a sharp tone. 

"I think it behooves us to find out exactly what happened out there and what that man, Bochra- did you say? has to do with all this," Challenger said firmly.

Roxton lifted his head up and sighed. "Alright. Here's what I know" He told them everything that Marguerite had recounted for him, omitting the birthmark issue. That little bit of information was not exactly presented to him with a lack of discretion and he felt behooved to give her some of her dignity.

"Let me see if I've got this straight," Finn said, scrunching up her face with concentration and counting on her fingers. "Marguerite's a Priestess and a Druid like the Old Guy whose name is Bochra who has a People that's in trouble with some Shadow Men who are responsible for the attacks?"

"Yes."

"I think you've got some more firsts, Professor," she said, flopping down into a chair, her eyes still wide with wonderment. 

"I daresay you're right. Are you certain of these facts?" he asked, fiddling with his beard.

"I trust her implicity. And he just confirmed it before" Roxton choked off.

"Okay. Fine. Well, when he wakes up again, I think we better get some answers and fast. If these men are intent upon killing Marguerite, we must be on our guard- they could come back."

Roxton grimly looked out the window, seemingly seeing beyond the lush undergrowth. "We'll be ready," he said darkly. "Let them try. We'll be ready."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

TBC


	4. Part One: What's My Name?

Guardians of Treasures Untold 

Part One: 4/10.

Author: Nefret24

Disclaimer and notes, see parts 1-3.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"Ugh."

Marguerite groggily regained consciousness and found herself in the same weird wooden hut. Obviously the "it was only a dream" explanation was not going to work, she thought wryly. 

The angry welt was still there; she felt as if it protruded about a foot off her head, with a second foot added on because of the copious bandages that red-haired man had wrapped around her head. Frustrated with them, she unceremoniously removed them. 

It was much darker in the room now- apparently she had been out for some time. She approached the dresser again and lit a small oil lamp, reseating herself in front of the mirror.

There I am, she thought, looking at her reflection. Marguerite Smith, same as always. Same gray eyes, same curly hair. Her brow crinkled in frustration. But why the hell can't I remember where I am and who all these people are? Am I a prisoner, a visitor, a spy? 

She curled her hands into fists and decided that it was finally time to do some exploring- if whomever those people were hadn't locked the door.

Relieved at the ease with which the door slid open, she tentatively stepped out of her room. No one seemed to be about. All the better, she thought. 

She entered a large room, decorated in the same sparse wooden style. There seemed to be several other rooms adjacent to it- what was this some sort of hostel in the woods? It couldn't be Germany- it was never this hot there

She turned and saw the wide expanse of window, stopping dead in her tracks. The jungle. She was in a jungle bungalow with other marooned lunatics! Maybe her ship had veered off course and she had landed on some odd, undiscovered shore? Captured by pirates and rescued by a kind missionary doctor and his scantily clad daughter? 

Her imagination conjured up thousands of bizarre scenarios as she approached the balcony, belatedly realizing that the wooden hut was in fact

"A treehouse. I live in a treehouse. Great," she said aloud without enthusiasm. "Absolutely bloody wonderful."

She turned and entered the common space again. Feeling a bit tired, she sat down on the couch and stared at the walls. Someone's an artist, she deduced from the scraps of sketches tacked to a wooden pier. I know it's not me, she thought and considered it the handiwork of the indecent blond. Though I don't know about that portrait, she thought, squinting at the drawing in the dim light, that is definitely not either one of the men I've seen. Or she's absolutely horrible at working from life.

Hmm Lots of guns in a rack on the wall. Seems an awful excess simply for protection's sake

Her thoughts were interrupted as she belatedly realized she was being watched. Remaining absolutely still, she waited him out to see what he would do next. But nothing happened.

He was still standing there, in the shadow of a doorway, when she finally addressed him, "So are you going to join me or not?"

Roxton cleared his throat self-consciously before slowly approaching her seat. "I take it you're feeling better?"

"Better? My head feels like it's been run over by an exceptionally fast carriage. Twice," she said, rubbing her eyes. Removing her hands, she leveled her gaze at him. He didn't flinch under her steely stare. Obviously she could not succeed in intimidating him in her current state, so she looked away. Her mind was teeming with thousands of questions left unanswered but she'd be damned before she admitted to him that she didn't know everything that she was supposed to. Like where the hell they were. And who he was.

"Do you remember me?" 

She forced a haughty laugh while still refusing to look at him. Damn damn damn. "Do you always ask such stupid questions?"

"If you remembered me, then you'd know, wouldn't you?" he said with a sad little smile. Sitting more forward in his chair, he spoke louder and commanded her attention. "Do you know my name, Marguerite?"

"A rose by any other name" she said, still trying to quip her way out of the conversation. He had blocked her only escape route by taking the wicker chair next to the couch. Unless she wanted to acrobatically climb over the endtable she was going to have to stay there and answer him. His eyes locked with hers and he watched her carefully. She could feel her cheeks warm under his intense consideration.

Pursing his lips, he steepled his fingers and drew his eyebrows together, the very portrait of intense thought. "Let's see if this rings any bells George" he trailed off, watching her reaction expectantly.

She raised an eyebrow at him and tried to decide what to do with this tidbit of information. George. Was that he? Was she on such good terms with him that she addressed him by his Christian name? Her eyes narrowing, she scanned his face. He didn't look like a George. Something in the back of her mind told her it didn't fit- but what was the alternative? Rumplestiltskin?

"George," she said experimentally and with the skills of years of training in espianoge, watched the man's reaction. He seemed to be cultivating a blank face to spite her. "Doesn't sound right," she added, and to her immense satisfaction, saw a glimmer of hope in his eyes. "Not for you anyway."

He grinned- a terribly captivating sight, that, Marguerite mused. "Not for me," he agreed. "But you don't know what my name is, do you? Only that it's not George."

"Why should you care if I know your name or not? Really, this is not a matter of life or death!" she said, exasperatedly.

"Because you should. Because we've known each other and lived in this house with the others together for three long years. And because you seemed to have forgotten every bloody minute of it!" he finished rather exasperatedly himself. After a deep breath he continued, "You suffered two successive blows to the head. You have amnesia, Marguerite. That's why you can't remember me- all of us."

She snorted derisively at this but did not look away. 

"What is the last thing that you do remember?"

She searched her memory and found it lacking. She remembered what must have been earlier in the day, staggering to her dressing table, seeing that blond girl and him before that nothing. Absolutely nothing. She felt her eyes closing as she tried to visualize her arrival at this bizarre place nothing. A ship the Shanghai port Xian the ouroboros

Marguerite's eyes flew open as her mouth formed an "o" shape. "This is the Plateau, isn't it?"

"Yes! Yes, Marguerite- can you remember anything else? The apemen attack? Assai maybe? Bochra?"

Her eyes narrowed again at his torrent of names and places he shouted excitedly at her. None of them meant anything. It was only logical, was it not, that if her last memory was stealing the medallion from Xian, the medallion whose other half was said to be halfway around the world in the middle of the Amazionian jungle, that she should be there, right?

All perfectly plausible except that Roxton had said she had been there three years. Had she had difficulties in finding its resting place? Did she give up? What the hell was going on?

"Look, I don't know what you're talking about but I'm getting tired. You know better than I what a day its been," she purred persuasively and rose, as if to retire. 

"Of course, yes, you shouldn't overdo it in one night," he said, getting up to his feet with the alacrity of a gentleman. "Do you need anything- tea? Hot water?"

She smiled and shook her head "no." Oh, would he just leave her be so she could figure out things on her own?

"Fine then. Good. I'll just um," he pointed over his shoulder. "I'll be in my room- it's over that way if you need anything. Anything."

"Alright then. Goodnight- what did you say your name was again?" 

"Roxton. Lord John Richard Roxton," he said with a bow, and gave her hand a chivalrous kiss. 

"Goodnight, Lord Roxton," she said and turned on her heel to go back into her own room. That suited him much better, she thought, her lips curling into a grin. Much better. 

TBC


	5. Part One: Messes Of Many Kinds

Guardians of Treasures Untold 

Part One: 5/10.

Author: Nefret24

Disclaimers n' notes, see part 1.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Marguerite waited for an hour before she began. Knowing herself, or thinking she knew herself, she would wager that the ouroborus medallion was hidden somewhere, out of sight. No matter what this Roxton said, she didn't think that in three decades, much less three years, could she bring herself to trust complete strangers enough for those secrets.

But she had made it here. That revelation floored her. She was actually on the plateau. She recalled the end of a conversation she had had with Xian- she had staunchly maintained that it was a fairy tale. 

_"Just you wait and see, the other half will turn up in the hands of a Cockney at Tottenham Court Road who can't make heads or tails of it," she had scoffed._

Xian, like the sneaky bastard he was, had just smiled and shook his head. "You English always have such a quaint way of saying things. But perhaps I should remind you: 'there are more things of heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy.' "

"And some people confuse philosophy with superstitions, fact with fiction, real life with dreams. Dragons that walk the earth? Probably just an over-size snake-in-the-grass," she had curled her lip and stalked off, leaving the warlord alone with his dusty manuscripts.

She wondered idly if there really were dragons after all. They had a lot of guns on that far wall

Finally guessing it was safe, she stood up from the bed and surveyed the room. If I were a medallion, where would I hide?

First, she went to the mattress, shifting it up onto her shoulders as she ran her hands over the underside. Nothing under it what about in it? She found a small hole and reached inside, pulling out a quantity of dust, feathers, hay and one small leather pouch.

Her hands tremulous with anticipation, her fingers eagerly worked the knot on the bag. She dumped its contents into her hand.

"Damn," she cursed softly when several small, uncut diamonds fell into her palm. "Pretty though."

She made a circuit of the room. She looked in pillowcases, chests, all the pockets of her clothes, behind all the picture frames and accumulated a small pile of little leather bags. All of them contained various precious gems and jewels- no medallion to be found. 

She pushed a stray hair out of her eyes and sighed heavily, sitting down on the bed again. It wasn't here. Obviously, she had been the busy bee insofar as getting her money back, which was a nice little thought, but what did it get her? Not a birth certificate, at any rate.

Would she have hidden it in the common rooms? Did she trust them not to find it? 

She went to her door and slowly opened it enough to allow her to peek out into the hall. No one awake. Lovely.

Being very careful to be quiet, she tiptoed to the living room. She repeated her search just as she had done in her room, looking in all the books, over and under the bookshelves- she had even tried some loose floorboards. And again, in all the most favorable places she had found a small pouch filled with glittering stones. 

Marguerite was beginning to lose her temper. She went to the kitchen and found three more bags. By now she wasn't even concealing her search or carefully returning things to their rightful places. Her fury increased with every fruitless hiding spot, every hidden bag containing beautiful things but not her medallion.

She had reached her breaking point. Her head was throbbing and she couldn't think clearly. She kept trying to remember what she had done with it, and ended up searching spots she had already uncovered. 

She collapsed on the couch and grabbing the nearest pillow, she held it over her mouth to muffle the sobs that unwilling rose in her throat. She ended up crying herself to sleep, alone in the dark, with nothing but cold stones to show for all her hard work.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 

"Vee! Roxton! Quick!" Finn's voice called out over the bird's calls in the early morning. 

"What is it?" Veronica mumbled, dragging her feet as she walked into the living room. Rubbing her eyes, she asked it again in a clearer voice. "What's up, Finn?"

"Look!" the younger girl said, pointing to the disarray of the living room.

"What's going on? Marguerite's not in her room-" Roxton said, entering the room with a concerned look on his face. He stopped short when he saw the common area. Books were everywhere, a chair was overturned and some of the floorboards were askew. 

"Kitchen's bad too," Finn said to him.

"Marguerite seems okay," Veronica said wryly, gesturing to the couch where the brunette was curled up on her side, the pillow still concealing her face. 

Roxton went over to the couch and removed the pillow. He could see the tear-tracks on her cheeks. Biting his lip to keep from swearing, he contented himself with removing a stray piece of hair from her face. 

He looked down to see her clenched fist. He took her small hand in both of his and slowly pulled it open. A dozen small gemstones, of varying sizes and colors, fell into his palm. 

Looking closer at the clutter around the couch, he saw several of the little pouches that Marguerite used to store her jewelry. 

"She did it," he said aloud, awe apparent in his tone.

"Yeah. Clearly that bump did a bit more than make her forgetful- it made her nuts too!" Finn said disgustedly as she helped Veronica pick up the mess.

"No, no- she's looking for something. She must have hidden over a dozen of these stupid bags all over the house" He showed Veronica one of the small discarded leather pouches he'd found by the couch.

"She hid her jewels under my floor?" Veronica said in consternation.

"She's got them buried outside too," Roxton said with a nod. 

"Wow! Are those real?" Finn asked, her eyes dazzled by the jewelry hoard Marguerite had unearthed.

"If Marguerite saved them, then yeah, I guess they are," Veronica said with a wry smile, and decided to see how badly the kitchen fared.

"Finn, young lady we will need to have a talk about all this shouting early in the morning oh my goodness!" Challenger said as he came up from his lab. "I was just finishing up another batch of that salve- what happened here?"

"Marguerite couldn't find something last night," Finn said with a shrug, re-shelving more books. "And I wasn't shouting."

"What was she looking for?" Challenger asked, surveying the room.

"Who knows what she's got stashed about- _in the flour jar_?? How could I have missed this?" exclaimed Veronica from the kitchen.

The two men exchanged bemused smiles and raised eyebrows. "I honestly don't know, George," Roxton confided. "Whatever it was"

"Whatever it was, she knew she hadn't found it. I wonder does she remember the plateau?" he asked, fingering his chin thoughtfully.

"I'm not sure. Last night she seemed to know of it, but she still didn't know my name. It's like the past three years never happened!" Roxton said feelingly.

"It'll be alright," Challenger said confidently. "Has anyone checked in on our other patient this morning?"

"We were kind of preoccupied with all of this" Roxton said sheepishly, gesturing to the recumbent woman.

"WHAT DID SHE DO TO MY STOVE?!"

"Maybe we'd better check on him," George said with a nervous glance at the kitchen.

"I'll help," Roxton agreed quickly, and they both made fast tracks as they heard Veronica bang pots and curse in the kitchen. Marguerite remained sound asleep.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"So how is the patient this morning?" Challenger said with a smile. Bochra seemed to be recovering nicely. He was still dreadfully pale and could not move much, but his eyes were clear and bright.

"Much better than yesterday, thank you," he replied genially, allowing Challenger to take his pulse.

"Not bad," Challenger said after a quick examination of his wound. "You're going to need to stay in bed for a few more days but you're out of the woods now."

"And the other patient? How is Marguerite?" Bochra asked in a quiet voice.

"She's lost her memory," Roxton said, bitterness in his voice as he leveled a harsh stare at the bedridden man.

"She can remember nothing?"

"Not of the last three years, no," Challenger answered before Roxton could reply. He placed a hand on one of the younger man's shoulders, hoping that he would unclenched the balled fists that rested on his thigh.

Roxton's tense shoulders did not relax by much at this gesture.

"May I speak with Lord Roxton alone?" Bochra asked Challenger, his eyes never leaving Roxton's face.

"Certainly. I'm sure the two of you have much to erm, discuss. I'll just, um, see how the kitchen's faring," he said with a weak smile and left the two men to themselves.

"Are you going to tell me why you're here? Why you've endangered Marguerite?" Roxton growled.

"I did not place her in any danger that she could have avoided. It is her destiny. As it is yours, and your friend's," Bochra said wearily, as a parent reiterating an explanation for an ignorant child.

"My friend's?" 

"The one they call Veronica."

"You've already hurt one woman of this house, I will not let you hurt another! Leave Veronica out of this!" Roxton roared, standing on his feet.

"She is the Protector. Surely you have seen the amulet she wears on her throat? The Trion? She is a part of this because of who she is. Just like Marguerite. And yourself."

"What exactly are you saying? That I'm in danger too?"

"You are the Chosen One's Guardian, Lord Roxton. The fate of you three has been linked before time was time. The Protector of the Plateau, the Chosen One and the Guardian," he counted the names on his fingertips. Pausing, Bochra tilted his head to one side and continued, "Do you believe that everything has a reason and a purpose?"

"I did once," Roxton hesitated, re-seating himself.

"Before the death of your brother," Bochra said and allowed himself a smug smile when Roxton's bowed head jerked up, startled. "Oh, I know all about you, Lord Roxton. But don't you see? If you hadn't of made that mistake, then you would have never come to the plateau, never met Marguerite. And it's here that you're needed. _She_ needs you."

"Stop talking in riddles! What the bloody hell is going on here?" Roxton pleaded.

"Evil has returned," Bochra said darkly. "And you are the only ones who can stop it."

TBC


	6. Part One: Who Are These People

Guardians of Treasures Untold 

Part One: 6/10.

Author: Nefret24

Disclaimers n' notes, see part 1.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"You've got to be kidding me," Lord Roxton began to guffaw aloud. He turned to Challenger, whose bemused face quickly darkened. Roxton glanced back at Bochra and felt his stomach drop. "Oh my god, you're serious."

"Ever so much more than you know. These are desperate times. If these men succeed, if they overthrow our peaceful reign" Bochra's voice cracked with emotion. "War will overtake our lands and will spread far and wide. If there is no opposition, it could mean the end of existence."

"That's impossible, man! Wipe out existence? It's a scientific improbability!" Challenger scoffed.

"Science cannot explain all that exists- surely the plateau has taught you that some things require faith in other methods?" Bochra raised an amused eyebrow at the scientist. 

"Magic? Hocus-pocus and other tomfoolery? You must have hit your head harder than I thought," Challenger said derisively.

"We have kept order throughout the planet for many ages of men and only once before had the Shadow Men ever come close to destroying everything we had worked so hard to maintain and protect," Bochra continued, now focusing most of his attention on Roxton.

"What happened then? How did you stop them?" he asked in a low voice.

"By the power of the Three. The Protector got our people to the relative safety of the plateau while the Chosen One and the Guardian defended the other world. But only the Chosen One can vanquish this evil- alone, with only one confederate at her side."

"But how? If what you say is true, if this evil has existed before time began, how can Marguerite stop it?" Roxton asked pleadingly.

"It is in her blood. Her -"

"Destiny. Yeah, you've mentioned that," Roxton said disgusted, rising to his feet. He paced from one end of the room to the other then leveled a stare at Bochra. He appeared to be telling the truth- there was little reason for him to make up such an elaborate lie. And the man's anguish over his tribe was too great to be insincere. 

His heart told him Bochra could be trusted but his gut instinct and years of hunting experience warned him not to loosen his guard around the old man. There was still _some_thing 

He approached the bed and bent down as to be eye to eye with Bochra. "And what happens now that Marguerite has forgotten who she is? Is destiny still enough then, friend?"

He left the room and left Challenger to his patient.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Meanwhile

Marguerite awoke to raised voices within the kitchen. As she pushed her hair out of her face and attempted to resituate herself (at the bloody treehouse still!), she vaguely recognized the voices to be that of the blond women. 

"My stove! She can't cook a single meal without burning everything yet she can completely dismantle my stove! I don't believe this!"

Marguerite's cheeks began to burn as she inched closer to the kitchen. Guess I was right about remembering a horrible meal in Paris, she mused. Apparently, her domestic skills had not improved in the last three years.

"Aw, common, Vee. It's not that bad. I think I almost got it uh, except for this thing."

"What is _that_?"

"Don't look at me. Should we save it?"

"Yeah- in case it doesn't work. I can bludgeon her with it."

Marguerite winced. She guessed that she and the women were not on friendly terms.

"I've never heard you talk this way about Marguerite. What gives? I thought she was like your sister or somethin'."

Sister? No way in hell. But **like** a sister? Had she really found that close of a friend in the middle of the wild? Marguerite decided she'd take that with a grain of salt, considering that possibly other attacks involving blunt instruments had originated by the jungle girl's hand during their stay.

"A sister? Sure, one minute I love her, the next I want to rip her hair out. I guess that's about right." The woman laughed. "You don't understand, Finn, it took awhile to get Marguerite to be civil, much less endearing. I've accused her of every crime I can think of and I think she's committed half of them in her lifetime. But that doesn't mean she's not entitled to a fair chance to start over. But so help me god, if this turns out to be another treasure hunt"

The woman's ominous tone made Marguerite shiver. 'Vee' knew her, all right. And that did explain the numerous bags of precious stones. She wondered how her path could have ever crossed with these people, who seemed so different from herself. Moralistic. Loyal. Brave. She had a sinking feeling that she was the black horse of the house and that made her sad for some unknown reason, that she had let these strangers down.

"Whatever. Speaking of treasure hunts, do you know what she was looking for?"

"No. But I'll bet Roxton does." 

Roxton! How would he know? How could he possibly? Marguerite scuttled back into a dark corner as she heard the two women exit the kitchen. The whole situation was intolerable. If she could just find the ouroborus, if she could just remember where she had put it, things would right themselves.

The red-haired doctor entered the living room and headed off to Marguerite's right, down the steps to his laboratory. She glanced up again to make sure the coast was clear when she noticed the garden outside. Outside! Maybe she had buried her treasure, like all good storybook pirates do.

But how the hell could she get down there? 

She heard heavy footsteps in the hall- must be Roxton. Well, if he knows so much about me and this place, then he must know how to get down. Raising herself off the floor, she began to smooth out her khaki pants and slightly rumpled lavender shirt. Straightening her shoulders, she made her way to the balcony just as he was entering the living room.

"Marguerite! You're awake!" he said, coming to her side.

She gave him one of her best smiles and was taken aback when she received one in return. Scruffy, disheveled, unshaven and seemingly without clean clothes and yet he certainly had a smile! Pearly white from ear to ear and it transformed his face, not bad to look at for starters, into something dangerously attractive. She curiously found herself imagining what he would look like with longer hair. 

"Roxton," she said and turned back to gaze out over the rail.

"You remember me?"

"Of course, you told me your name yesterday. Or are you suffering from amnesia this morning too? I hope it's not catching," she said, her tone light.

"So I did. Remember anything else?" he asked, not so subtly. 

"Sorry."

His brow creased with worry but quickly smoothed out. "Well, these things take time," he said, though he didn't sound thoroughly convinced himself.

"Look, Roxton, can I ask you a favor?" she asked, half-turning towards him and doing her best to imitate innocence.

"You hardly need ask," he said, coming closer to where she stood. "Just name it," he said, a huskiness creeping into his voice as her hands lightly came to rest on his lapels.

She stared for the shortest moment at her hands and marveled at how natural that movement had seemed, almost if she was walking into an embrace. Shaking it off and resolving to analyze that later, she continued with her plan. "Can you show me what's out there? Perhaps it'll jog my memory."

"My lady, are you asking me to show you the sights?" he asked, his eyes crinkling with humor.

"Whatever's to be had- I don't suppose that there's a more luxurious place in this wildnerness, is there?" she rolled her eyes melodramatically. 

"You live in the lap of luxury, Marguerite- this is the best the Plateau has to offer. But if you'd like to see the rustics" he said in a mocking tone and gesturing towards the living room. "Then I'll just get my hat."

She blinked at this statement and stood rigid for a moment before adding, "Thank you." 

She followed him out into the living room and towards the gun rack, near which hats also hung. She grabbed one and placed it on her head only to find it taken from her grasp.

"Try this one," Roxton said, handing her a dark brown hat and placing the tan one she had grabbed onto his own head. Odd, that, thought Marguerite, twisting her lips. Something was very familiar about that hat, something

"Your pistol," he interrupted her thoughts and produced a small revolver before her eyes. She took it from him and examined the chamber. Two bullets left. She was about to ask for ammunition when warm hands snaked around her waist.

"And your ammunition," he purred into her ear, as he snapped the button of her bullet pouch onto her skirt's belt. 

"I suggest you tread lightly, Lord Roxton," she said in her most supercilious tone. "I'm armed now, who knows what I might be capable of?" She turned to face him and raised a sardonic eyebrow.

"I think I can handle it," he replied in the same joking tone.

"Three years without a scratch?" she asked, shocked at his suggestions and apparent candor. Had she really been so close to this man that she had allowed him all these liberties?

"My wounds are all but healed." He wasn't rueful or disdainful, he carried on in the same flirtatious fashion. He probably was that way with all the ladies, her brain rationalized. Probably got bored with the two blondes and decided to try the female of the different flavor. Or maybe he's got a thing for amnesiacs? 

"Well, let's not open them again, shall we?" she said peremptorially, her tone harsh. "Or add new ones," she added baring her teeth. "Can we go now?"

He grunted unintelligibly and turned his back on her to holster his pistols. She crossed her arms and tapped her foot loudly on the wooden floor, telling herself that she imagined that fleeting look of hurt across his face. 

"Alright," he said, pulling down his hat and momentarily obscuring his eyes. "Let's get a move on then, since we're in such a hurry."

Marguerite stood there, dumbfounded. Don't tell me he thinks I know how to get down from this infernal wooden contraption!

Almost as if sensing her befuddlement, he brushed past her and into a small alcove at her right. "Get in."

"Get in what?" she said, warily stepping forward.

"It's an elevator," he said and flung the switch to lower them to the ground floor.

"A wooden elevator. How quaint. I'll be sure to notify the Resplendent when I return to London," she said sarcastically as she walked out into the yard. 

"Unless you'd like to sleep in a bed of leaves, I suggest you appreciate it. Veronica's parents engineered the treehouse with a great deal of ingenuity and Challenger's added his own, er, improvements. Like the fence," he added, holding open the gate for her.

"Made out of his own iron ore and the sweat of his brow?" she remarked nastily.

"And your underwear," he replied in kind and began to lead her into the surrounding jungle.

After several minutes of tense silence, she spoke again. "Where are you leading me?"

"I thought we'd visit the Zangas- they have a village close by. Veronica practically grew up with them and we regularly visit them to get supplies."

"A savage Harrods," she muttered, stepping over a fallen tree branch.

"They were some of the first people we encountered on the plateau," he continued. "They're as good as anybody to jog your faulty memory."

"And this is as good a place as any to make my departure," she said, swinging the heavy branch directly at his head. He fell to the ground with a thud and after assessing that he was definitely unconscious, she left with all haste.

It wasn't until many minutes (that had seemed like hours) later that Marguerite realized that she was hopelessly and utterly lost. It is one thing, she supposed, to make a dash in a city foreign to you- at the very least, there are people and transportation and roads and buildings- but to find one's way out of a jungle is a completely different thing. How she ever expected she would remember where she had buried the ouroborus- had she buried it? - how did she expect that she would remember how to get there?

She stopped and kicked a nearby tree, cursing in German. She shot a nervous glance at the direction in which she had come and wondered if Roxton was still lying where she had left him. Maybe she could pretend nothing happened or a really large bird flew into his head from behind

Her thoughts were interrupted by a loud screech and whipping around, she saw what the Oriental manuscript writers had named dragons: two Raptors, dinosaurs. She couldn't move; all she could do was stare, cold terror gripping and paralyzing her limbs as they shrieked and came closer to their prey

TBC


	7. Part One: The Shadow Men Return

The Guardians of Treasures Untold 

Part One: 7/10.

Author: Nefret24

Disclaimers and notes, see part 1. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Her hand hovered over her pistol holster but she knew she would be too late. She never claimed to be a quick draw but even if she managed to whip out the gun with lightning speed, she only had two bullets: she hadn't reloaded the gun. 

So she stood, paralyzed by fear, one foot inching backwards away from the slowly advancing beasts. She would have considered screaming if she didn't think it would be pointless, not to mention undignified. 

She felt her eyes slowly squint close in anticipation of the onslaught, the beasts shrieking amplified by her enforced blindness.

She imagined the disgusting creatures inches from striking when the shots rang out. Rapid fire, shrieks, and loud pounding footsteps… she experienced one bizarre moment of nostalgia for the war. One of the dinosaurs fell twisted to the ground, howling in death while the other out of fury and defense charged her.

Her numb fingers fumbled on the pistol and she managed one shot that blended with others- the noise of gunfire reverberating in her ears, she almost didn't believe that the shots had come only from behind her, from one man.

The second beast, wounded, deserted its comrade and fled for its life.

He approached her, out of breath from his dash to the rescue, and holstered his pistols with more anger than care. She squared her shoulders as she turned to face him.

His countenance was twisted with ire and when he spoke his voice was indignant and loud.

"What the blazes were you thinking! Dammit, Marguerite, you could have been killed!"

She placed her hands on her hips and looked down her nose at him. I'll be damned if I let him know how frightened I was, she thought. "Why if it isn't the scout master, come to lecture the impudent runaway," she quipped, curling her lip offensively.

His eyes hardened. "If I hadn't come to my senses in time, you would have been dinosaur food!"

"I can handle myself just fine on my own, thank you!"

"Is that why your tracks of the last twenty minutes are in circles? Why you didn't see the raptors until it was too late? Why you didn't shoot them point blank when they advanced?"

"I shot one of them!" she shouted back, her temper slowly building. She had been stupid, so **stupid** to think that she could handle herself out here without any bearings on where "here" was. She was furious with herself for not thinking her plan through more thoroughly and even more furious that Roxton had called her on it.

"A bit late," he drawled nastily. "What did you think you were doing, running off like that? Did you really think you were going to get anywhere?"

"I don't need to explain myself to you," she replied haughtily.

"That's right, you don't- because you don't need to. You forget, Marguerite, that I know you pretty well. You're looking for the ouroborus, aren't you?"

Marguerite went rigid. How did he know? Did she tell him? Had he found out somehow? Maybe he was blackmailing her… maybe he had found the other half. She didn't know how to respond without giving away that she had remembered part of who she was. So she denied it. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Come off it. I don't know what you remember and what you don't, but you remember _that_. You've been looking for it. That's why the house was in shambles this morning. What, did you think you buried it outside in one of your little treasure holes?"

She couldn't help it, her mouth opened slightly at his remark. If she hadn't possessed so much self control, it would have dropped wide-open. How, how did he know?

"What a nice little theory you have, Lord Roxton. You could tell tales for a living."

"You won't find it," he said in a low arrogant voice, each consonant clipped with repressed anger. Every negative emotion he had for her was bubbling to the surface and he sailed happily into the fray, baring his teeth at her. "It's gone. Back to Xian with its other half."

Her eyes widened and then her lips hardened into a thin line. "You lie."

"Why don't you check the heel of your boot then? _That's_ where you hid it. Open it up- see if it's there," he taunted her.

Marguerite for her own part refused to give him the satisfaction of looking. She sat down on a rock away from the fallen beast and felt a slight wave of nausea come over her. She remembered… buying the shoe. Its special specifications. Damn. She shot a glance at Roxton out of the corner of her eye. From his behavior up to this point, he had been nothing but gentlemanly, trustworthy, caring. A real boy scout. Something told her that he was speaking the truth, that through whatever chance of events, that he knew about Xian's bargain.

But if it were true…! Everything she had worked so hard to find, lost, gone, again. She had nothing now- no memory of this place and these people with whom she was stranded. And what of that which she actually did remember? Did that happen? Were those true or some nightmare accompaniment of her amnesia and her twisted psyche? 

Nothing and no one… she felt ill. Her senses were swimming, her headache returned and all she could smell was dead raptor… She turned away from him and began to vomit into a nearby bush. As the bile rose in her throat, her sole thought was concentrated on emptying herself- nothing left outside, nothing left inside… 

As her body shook with retching, she hardly became aware of his presence beside her, of his gentle touch on her back, rubbing up and down with callused fingertips, her hair carefully pulled out of the way and reined in behind her shoulders.

Roxton watched her silently, repenting his outburst. Her world was topsy-turvy; of course she didn't know what she was doing, she didn't know who her friends were. To wake up in a strange place with your only memory being men like Xian… well, he should have known that she would do something foolhardy like try to "escape." Though she had been less than truthful with him, he felt certain that she didn't remember the plateau yet; the shock she experienced when she faced those raptors reminded him of her first encounter with a T-Rex. He had saved her life then, too, even though she snapped and yelled and made life bloody miserable. Now he knew that wasn't the real her- or at least, it wasn't the only side to her- that she had just as much capacity to be caring and compassionate… when she wanted to. 

He wished he could just take her into his arms and kiss the top of her hair and tell her it would all turn out fine. Yet he felt like he was starting over, as if he had three years of screaming and heartache in front of him before he could do what he had come to think of as the most natural of movements. He felt at a complete loss at how to comfort her, this remarkable woman who had claimed his heart. So he massaged her back and held her hair and waited for the convulsions to cease. 

"We should go back," he said softly, half to himself. "Challenger should take a look at you- see if you're alright."

"I'm fine," she murmured back firmly, trying to regain some semblance of composure before she would dare to turn around and look at him. 

"Marguerite…" he sighed and stood up. "Come on, let's go home."

"That place is **not** my home," she said in the same firm tone.

"Funny- because that's what you've called it these past three years."

"And you and those idiots back there are my family? One mad scientist, two blond and very immodest jungle tarts, one gun-happy aristocrat and an evil stepsister? Some family tree." 

"Yes," he said, the edge creeping back into his voice. "We are a family. And like any family, we look out for our own- even when they're too stupid to look out for themselves," he finished pointedly. As he helped her rise from her seat (well, more pulled than supported, truth be told), he noticed she had a funny expression on her face. Was it possible she was remembering something? She had worn the same faraway expression several times that day, each time missing a comeback quip. After walking for a few minutes, he decided to take the plunge; if they were going to argue, they might as well have one of their tried and true shouting matches over this.

"What is it? What do you remember?"

"Pardon?" She blinked twice and then affixed a quizzical expression on her face.

"You're remembering something, aren't you?"

"I'm not--" Seeing his face darken, she sighed and began to trudge forward. Apparently, when he said he knew her well, he wasn't exaggerating. "Not really, anyhow. It's like something is on the tip of my tongue but I just can't find the word…"

Roxton then stumbled forward, cursing loudly. He scrambled to his feet and whirled around. "I thought we had been through this!"

"Been through what?" Marguerite asked, stopping as well.

"You hit me again!" he pointed an accusing finger at her, the other hand holding the back of his head.

"I did no such thing!" she yelled back.

"Marguerite, stop playing these stupid bloody games- I don't have the patience anymore!"

"Not even the saints have enough patience to deal with you!" she countered. "I didn't come anywhere near you!"

"So what knocked me down- the wind perhaps?" he asked furiously.

"Your own bloody arrogan--" she was cut off as something connected with her stomach. Winded but not unconscious, she slowly got to her feet and glared at him.

"Fine kind of gentleman you are, to punch a lady!" She prepared herself to attack but he seemed preoccupied.

"I didn't hit you- something else did," he muttered through clenched teeth.

"What the hell are you talking about? Who's the one playing games now?" she screamed at him as she approached his side.

"Listen- do you hear that?"

She waited a beat before she replied. "I don't hear anything, you daft imbecile--"

"Exactly- absolute silence," he interrupted her, lowering his hand from his neck and flexing his fingers. "It was like that before when--"

He didn't finish. He stumbled backwards as his pistols flew out of their holsters. When his head reeled back, Marguerite was shocked to find that his lip was split and bleeding. 

She hadn't moved. She hadn't seen it strike but she had felt it brush past her arm. They weren't alone.

She was about to speak when hands- was it hands? grabbed her waist and arms. She lashed out in all directions, guessing where her opponents stood. "Roxton!"

His eyes grew wide with surprise and fear as he saw her, grappling with unseen opponents that half held her suspended in air. He heard her foot connect with one of them and saw the leaves on the jungle floor jostle as if the thing had fallen to the ground.

"Marguerite!" he called out before he was promptly punched in the face again. 

Realizing that she would never get far with these transparent foes, she tried to toss dirt on them to make them visible by kicking up the jungle floor. The dry, coarse soil refused to adhere and the two attackers were slowly getting the upper hand.

Meanwhile, Roxton was warily circling where he suspected his opponent stood. Boxing became very difficult when you can't see your opponent he thought, trying to judge how to fashion an assault against an invisible creature. Wherever had his guns got to?

"A little… oof, help… would be NICE!"

Roxton looked over to see Marguerite being dragged away and made a dash for her. He could sense his opponent on his heels as he ran towards her and began pummeling the air that seemed to support her. 

Needless to say, they dropped her on the ground rather unceremoniously. "I didn't mean that kind of help," she said through gritted teeth and began to kick out and presumed legs. Unholstering her pistol and shrugging off one of them that tugged at her arm, she fired across Roxton's shoulder, who promptly flinched.

The invisible man fell to the ground with a dull thud, materialized for a brief moment before liquefying into nothingness. 

"Well, that was odd," Marguerite commented blithely, and then frustrated with the one at her side, fired into the air again. The same behavior occurred. 

Roxton managed to knock the last remaining one unconscious before he turned to her. "No, that was close," he said, gesturing at his shoulder.

"Oh, don't be such a big baby, that bullet came nowhere close. I happen to be a very good shot," she sniffed.

"Oh, I know. But I've had enough near-misses with you to make me uneasy on principle. Common, let's make tracks before they find friends," he said and tugged her in the opposite direction, refusing to answer her questions as to what he meant by that remark. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"Did we lose them?" Marguerite asked breathlessly, some time later.

"Let's hope so," Roxton said, dropping down onto a fallen tree branch. 

"Why the long face? Don't you get attacked by invisible men everyday?" she asked before passing a canteen to him.

"That is not an everyday occurrence, no. And they've got my pistols," he added sheepishly, before taking a hearty swig.

"Well, isn't that a shame," she said without sympathy. "Can't we go home now? I'm hungry, I'm tired, my feet hurt and it's getting dark. Haven't we lead them far enough astray?"

Roxton merely sat still, his brow deeply furrowed with thought.

"Roxton? Are you listening to me? Can't we go home so I can make passionate love to you in a bed instead of on a leafy pile of dirt?"

His head jerked up. "What did you say?"

"Men," she muttered, shaking her head and unable to control a small smile at his reaction. 

"Can. We. Go. Home. Now?"

"Yes. We ought to be behind the fence before nightfall… I think we might have just wasted the afternoon," he said thoughtfully, then regretted it when he saw her face.

"Wasted the afternoon… You mean that was all for nothing? The circles, the false trails, the pain in my feet… and they still know where we live, don't they? They still know how to get to that treehouse," she fumed, her eyes bright with anger. "Have they been there before?" she asked with false sweetness.

"They might have been," he admitted grudgingly.

"They MIGHT have been! Oh lovely. Can this day **get** any better!" she asked the trees, stomping away.

"Marguerite."

"What now?" she snapped, whirling her head around.

"Treehouse is that way," he said with a grin, pointing in the opposite direction.

"I hate you."

Roxton spied a tree branch very similar to the one he presumed she had bludgeoned him with earlier in the day and was seized with the impulse to try the remedy on her amnesia. As tempting as it was a quick way to restore Marguerite to her less hostile old self, it was terrifying to think what she could inflict upon him if he hit her and it didn't work. 

He let the branch remain where it was and quickly caught up with her. It wasn't until a few minutes later that he realized he didn't hear the birds.

"I think our friends are back," he whispered.

"How can you tell?" she whispered back, her eyes darting from one side of the path to the other.

"It got quiet again. Come on, I have an idea." With that, he began to walk away from the cleared path and Marguerite followed behind. They could hear the rustling of the bushes as the invisible men followed and they picked up the pace.

"Do you remember how to swim?" he asked her, breathless and still running.

"Yes- why?"

"Good," he scooped her up in his arms and ran through several thorny bushes before falling almost face-first in the lake, tossing her further into the water as he skidded into the bank. He swam out to meet her, sputtering and cursing as she came to the surface.

"You bloody bastard," she said, pulling wet hair away from her eyes and mouth. 

"Save your thanks for later," he said, pulling the gun from her belt. At her expostulations, he then decided to ask her for the extra ammo instead of getting it himself. "And hope this works."

"Why are we in the lake?" she asked, her teeth beginning to chatter.

"Because if any of them try to get close to us, they'll be seen. They'll have to come into the water- we'd spot them immediately."

"They could attack from the shore- throw spears or knives or--"

"I don't think so. When they attacked us, they didn't have any weapons. Hit me with bare hands."

"But they have your guns."

"I don't know if they know how to use them. If they did, and their main goal was to kill us, why didn't they do that on the road? No, something else is going on here," he said, beginning to feel cold himself. It had gotten darker; soon, Challenger and Veronica would be worried, if they weren't already. Finn, of course, would have wanted to form a search party hours ago just to be able to brandish her crossbow outdoors for a while, he thought fondly.

Marguerite was mentally listing off every horrid thing about her life at present and getting into a more sour disposition with each passing minute. Tired, cold, helpless, memoryless and soaking wet again… where did that "again" come from? 

"Roxton, I c-can't stand much m-more of this," she said, clenching her teeth to muffle the clattering of her molars.

"Marguerite not enjoying a nightly swim? I shall have to make a note of it in my journal," he quipped fondly and rubbed her shoulders. 

"Water's too cold," she mumbled.

Roxton extended the arm that had been holding the pistol out of the water and fired into the trees. Shrieking birds flew out of its branches and over their heads. "I guess we can try."

They swam to the water's edge and warily stepped out onto the shore. Roxton looked at Marguerite, waterlogged and tired, illuminated by the reflection of moonlight and thought he could die happy if that was the last sight he'd see. Without a word, he nodded and she nodded back. They ran all the way to the treehouse.

When they emerged, dripping, from the elevator, Finn raced into the living room. "What happened to you guys? The professor and Vee went out to look for you!"

"We ran into some very interesting characters who apparently don't like us very much," Roxton said by way of explanation, and helped Marguerite to sit down in a chair.

"Who?"

"Don't know. They're invisible."

"Cool! I mean, man, that's terrible. How did you get away?"

"I'm not sure we did…" he said beginning to head off to his room, when he shot a glance at Marguerite who remained sitting where he had left her.

She was ghostly pale and her teeth were still chattering. Her hands had been clenched into fists while she was running and remained in that position, resting on her thighs. 

"Oh God, she's in shock," he said, running to the brunette's side. "Finn, get some blankets- warm up some water on the stove."

He lifted her into his arms and carried her towards her room where he placed her down on the bed. "Second time this week I've had to carry you in here. Don't make a habit of this."

Finn promptly appeared with the blankets. "Stove's on- I think. I'm not sure if me and Vee put it back together properly…" she said, watching as Roxton began to remove Marguerite's wet shirt. 

"Keep a lookout on the balcony- make sure you can hear the birds. If it gets real quiet…"

"Those invisible men might come back here? I'm on it," she said resolutely, and rushed off to find her cross-bow. 

"Marguerite, talk to me. Common, it's not time to go to sleep yet," he said, vigorously rubbing her arms as he wrapped a warm blanket around her shoulders.

"So… tired."

"That's it…" he said, taking off her boots. "Keep talking."

"Soaking wet … again," she said in an odd voice, her whole body shaking as a chill passed over her.

"Yes. Very wet. And I'm going to make sure you get dry, okay? Just keep talking to me," he pleaded, taking off her belt and beginning to undo her skirt.

"So cold. So… very cold," she whimpered, moving a finger to clutch at the corner of a blanket. 

He had managed to remove her wet clothing, save her camisole and underwear, and had wrapped several blankets around her. No hot water, no more blankets and still she shivered; he could feel the tremors pass through her.

"Body heat," he remembered aloud, and stripped off his shirt and shoes. Getting into the bed with her, he wrapped her in a tight embrace. "I'll warm you up."

"Body heat," she repeated, nodding and burying her face into his shoulder. 

He held her close and contented himself with the feel of the rise and fall of her chest. After all that had happened today, after all that had happened this week! she was still alive. That was his Marguerite. Whether she remembered the cave or not, whether she gave a damn about him now or ever, that was what mattered. That she survived.

Marguerite was slowly regaining her senses and became immediately hyper-aware of the half-naked man in whose embrace she lay. Roxton again. Yet instead of struggling or shrieking out of indignity, she continued to lay, content, in his arms. There was a familiarity in it, the touch, the smell… had they been lovers? From where she now lay, she would like to think so. Nevertheless, part of her mind refused to accept it: that this man who had risked so much over the course of the day for her safety, could ever love her. (Love? Where did that come from?)

Men were men were men. Lust, she had dealt with extensively. And obligations out of contracts and unwritten moral codes of thieves. And maybe this was simply the boy scout method of relieving shock and had nothing to do with tender feelings of any kind- not the love of a sibling or lover, or whatever it was that she was to him.

"John," she said experimentally, her voice somewhat breathy.

"Hmm?"

"That's your name isn't it?" He nodded. "Just trying it out. John," she said again to his shoulder.

He smiled. "How does it sound?"

"Fitting. You know, you're very warm," she commented, burrowing deeper into covers and closer to him. 

"Hmm. All the better for you, my dear."

"Lucky me- to have such a knight in shining armor," she smiled back as that weird familiar sense pricked up again.

His face sobered and he sighed into her hair. "You warm now?"

"Hmmm… very."

"Then I'd better get going- Challenger and Veronica are going to be back pretty soon and they'll need to know about those things out there…" he began to shift away from her.

"Please," she whispered, her lips brushing his neck. "Please don' t go. Not- not yet."

He looked down at her, her eyes wide and her thin fingers splayed out on his chest. She spoke again, "Please."

He didn't particularly feel like getting up anyway and gathered her back in.

TBC…


	8. Part One: Girl Talk and Destiny

The Guardians of Treasures Untold 

Part One: 8/10.

Author: Nefret24

Disclaimers and notes, see part 1.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Marguerite awoke in a panic. As her eyes became accustomed to the dimness of the room and the blood rushing through her ears had calmed to a dull roar, she exhaled loudly. Wiping the hair from her face, she disentangled herself from Roxton's embrace and sat up, grateful he was asleep. 

She had had a nightmare, quite unlike any she had had before. It wasn't just that she had a nightmare: she'd had them before, she remembered having them. Anxiety dreams, painful memories of Paris, of the war

This was something different altogether. And what made it more unsettling was how real it had seemed less like a dream and more like a vision

She ran her hands over her face and her fingertips came to rest at her temples, gently massaging up and down. She glanced over at her sleeping companion and her stomach flip-flopped disconcertingly.

That development was unsettling too. From the subtle and not so subtle hints dropped by the various inhabitants of the treehouse, she gathered that Roxton must be close to her in some fashion. The real question remained: how close?

In the past twenty-four hours, he had frustrated her to no end and managed to raise her considerable temper more than once. He had provoked her in the most precise ways possible and proceeded to give as good as he got– impervious to scathing remarks or steely glares– a fact which, of course, only enraged her even more.

And yet, almost simultaneously, he had managed to be charming, discrete, gentlemanly, tender and affectionate beyond all measure – almost looking at her as if she was the light of his life! How was that possible?

He knew some of her secrets – that was amazing in and of itself – but that he should still like her (love her?) in spite of them well, if that were true, then he wasn't a man, he was a miracle. 

Whatever he did know, he certainly couldn't know **every**thing, and that was a mercy. I doubt if he'd be so quick to share my bed then, she mused ruefully, as a hand reached out to smooth the hair away from his brow. She stopped herself mid-movement and upbraided herself again. 

Oh she really was losing it now, wasn't she? Three years of her life gone, murderous invisible men lurking in the jungle, a handsome kind-hearted man in love with her (and she with him??) surely, a small white room loomed in her future. 

She decided she needed a glass of water. Slowly climbing out of bed, taking care not to disturb him, she found a silk robe and tying it loosely, padded out into the common room space. Noiselessly she made her way to the kitchen and poured herself a glass. She greedily drank until most was finished and moved back out into the living room. She walked up and down, scanning the walls, lit with moonlight. It was familiar but how?

She started as she saw a figure on the balcony and almost dropped her glass. The figure turned at her gasp.

"It's just me Veronica," the figure clarified, returning to the balcony railing.

Setting her glass down on a table, Marguerite approached the open doorway. "Mind if I join you?"

"Not at all," the jungle girl replied abstractly. Her hands were at her throat, fiddling with a triangular-shaped amulet, a far away expression on her face.

With the quickness that made her prized as both thief and spy, Marguerite deduced what troubled the woman. "Who is that man in the drawings? I assume that they're yours, of course"

Veronica turned a wide-eyed expression to her. "It's One of our former companions Ned. Ned Malone. He was is! He is a journalist- part of your expedition."

"And where is he now?" Marguerite asked hesitantly, unsure about her use of tense.

"He went on a journey. By himself. A couple months ago."

"Was he supposed to have returned by now?"

"Yes. Er, no. I don't know!" Veronica said exasperatedly, her fist hitting the rail. "He didn't say where he was going," she added in a calmer voice.

"Oh," Marguerite said softly. "Do you always keep watch for him?"

"Always." A grim smile played on her lips as her hands returned to her throat.

"And Ned he's your friend?" Marguerite ventured, self-conscious. For some reason, she felt like she was treading on thin ice with her inquiries, that something intense bound the jungle girl to the missing man, something that was apparent or maybe it wasn't apparent to all parties involvedwell, she wasn't sure. Were she and Roxton apparent? (And why the hell should she bother to think of him now?)

"Yes," she said with conviction. And more softly, "He is my best friend."

"Well, you know what they say – 'absence makes the heart grow fonder,' " Marguerite said in a light tone, suddenly desperate for neutral ground.

"Yeah," she replied, unconvinced. After a few intense moments of silence, she seemed to shake whatever black mood washed over her, she turned and addressed Marguerite in a more conversational tone. "You okay? Finn said you had some sort of shock."

"Between invisible men, raptors, and an hour in a frigid lake, I think I was entitled to a bit of a breakdown," Marguerite said with a forced laugh. "I'm alright now- just a bit thirsty," she gestured to the other room, elaborating her presence.

"You're okay, and that's the important thing. Roxton always did take good care of you," Veronica said with a chuckle.

"Always?" The question came out of her mouth before she had a chance to stop it.

Veronica raised an amused eyebrow at Marguerite. "The last three years I've seen you two come inches away from murdering each other with your bare hands. But without fail, you manage to save each other's skins time and time again. I used to think it was so ridiculous that you two could be in love."

"What! Who says we are NOT" she broke off as her voice rose to unacceptable decibels, "in love!" Marguerite finished in a harsh whisper.

Veronica grinned like the Cheshire cat, Marguerite thought, watching the blond smile knowingly back at her. "How do you know? You can't remember the past three years."

"Whatever I remember or don't remember is inconsequential!" she said, crossing her arms defensively. "That me and him? That's, that's just preposterous!"

"You're not making a very good argument. I doubt you've managed to even convince yourself. Otherwise what's Roxton's _doing_ in your bedroom?"

"We --! I --! Nothing but sleeping, thank you very much!" Marguerite replied indignantly, feeling her ears turn puce. 

Veronica laughed. "Why is that so horrible, Marguerite? Roxton is a good man-"

"I know, I know," she replied with a sigh. "I can't think clearly anymore. Everything's so jumbled up– I can't tell what's real anymore, what to trust. Who to trust."

"You can trust us, Marguerite. For better or for worse, we're a sort of family now. And you can definitely trust Roxton- he knows you better that any of us."

Marguerite willed tears away. "I know," she managed in a weak voice. "I can't make sense of it, but I know."

"That scares you, doesn't it? Having people care about you that much?" Veronica said softly, her eyes searching Marguerite's face.

"People don't tend to last long around me," she mumbled enigmatically.

"Well, we've brazened it out this far, I think we can handle a few more days!" 

They laughed and Veronica impulsively gave her an unexpected, but oddly enough, not unwanted, hug. Marguerite made motions to leave but stopped before going inside to turn back. Veronica had resumed her earlier stance and stood sadly looking out into the jungle.

"About what I said earlier that 'absence makes the heart grow fonder' nonsense it's not true. Mostly absence just breeds regret. What you might have done, or said Look: I know I'm out of my head but I'd wager that he feels just as silly, if not more so, trying to find something he already has."

Now it was Veronica's turn to have her eyes mist over. "You think?"

"I _guess_, really. For whatever else I've lost, I still have a woman's intuition. He's out there somewhere. He'll come back. He'd be a fool not to. Well. I-- good night."

"Good night, Marguerite."

Odd, this having a sister business, both women thought, both disconcerted with how reassuring the other had been.

Marguerite reclaimed her glass and deposited back into the kitchen. She was on her way back to her room when she stopped and returned to the balcony.

"More advice?" Veronica asked with a smirk before noting Marguerite's serious expression. "What is it?"

"There's a man lying unconscious in the hallway."

For one wild irrational moment, Veronica thought it was Ned, bludgeoned again. Then the realization hit her: "Oh no! The patient!"

Both women rushed back to the man's side and each taking an arm, restored him to his bed. 

"What did you think you were doing?" Veronica scolded him, arranging his legs on the bed after he had regained consciousness.

"Marguerite," he said thickly and took hold of the brunette's hand with an iron grip. "I need to speak with you. Time is running out"

"Do you need to call Challenger?" Marguerite asked as Veronica assessed if damages on his bandages.

"No, no harm done. But that was still pretty stupid of you --"

"Marguerite, please," he said forcefully. "I **must**"

"I'll just be outside if you need me," Veronica said to Marguerite and exited the room.

Marguerite tried to twist her hand free from his but he held on as if she were a lifeline. Sighing in defeat, she pulled a nearby chair closer to his bed and sat down.

"Alright. I'm here. What do you want to talk about? The weather or politics?"

"Your destiny can wait no longer."

"My destiny? I suppose you figured that out with your crystal ball and some tea leaves," she replied ascerbically.

"The ouroborus has been reawakened."

"How can a medallion be ' reawakened' ?"

"It has been removed from its resting place. It has been reunited. It has been used to cross time and space," he explained as if he were speaking to a small child.

"Newsflash, pal. It was destroyed." How the hell did she know that??

"In this space, in this time, perhaps. Come closer, child," he said, raising a hand to her cheek. "Do you remember when you helped us before?"

Almost simultaneously as his fingertips touched her cheek, a series of events flooded her mind: quicksand, yelling at Roxton, those invisible things, Ned?, and emeralds

"I thought I had saved you. I thought you went back to Stonehenge," she said in an awed voice.

"We did, my dear. We did. But the emeralds were taken history changed its course The ouroborus was the key and it was used against us"

"A key?"

"Between worlds. A back door which never should have been opened," he shook his head and grunted at the pain. "A door back to the plateau."

"Wait- 'back to the plateau?' Back from where?"

"Did you honestly think that all these mythical creatures and bizarre phenomena could occur in one place without a logical explanation?"

"I'm a bit fuzzy on my current events but I'll take your word for it," she replied wryly. "So what then? So what if the ouroborus was a key? What does it matter?"

His hand dropped away from her face. "It matters a great deal. We shall be destroyed. You, your friends, the plateau, will be destroyed if you do not help us."

She exhaled loudly. "Let's say, for the sake of argument, that I believe you. What would I have to do?"

"You must go back to my time. You must stop the men from entering the temple"

"Go back to your time? How? In my time machine? You're bloody insane!"

"You must decide, Marguerite. I cannot force you to go. I tell you only what must be done. You must choose to do it. It is a burden no one else can carry, a path no one else can walk. But if it is any consolation, you were born for this battle."

"My destiny?" she asked softly.

He nodded and let loose her hand, slowly drifting off to sleep.

Deep in thought, Marguerite returned to her own room in a haze. Roxton was sitting up in bed and pulled back the covers for her to join him.

"Do you want me to" he began but she placed a finger on his lips and settled back into his arms. 

"Not really. Unless you want to"

"Not really," he returned with a smile. "Where'd you go?"

"To get a glass of water. All this excitement makes a girl thirsty."

"Well, I'll do my best to be boring and dull for the rest of the night."

She laughed soundlessly against his chest and felt absurdly happy. Happy and confused to no end. Her destiny? Yeah right. But she would have never imagined that she could have opened her heart to anyone and here she was with Lord John Roxton, repressing the urge to giggle like a giddy schoolgirl.

"Did you mean it back there, when you said you hated me?" he asked softly.

"Yes. At the time. I think I've shown that I could be open to persuasion."

"Hmmm You wouldn't be flattering me because I threatened to get up just now, would you?"

"Me? Do a devious thing like that? Never!"

"Yeah, devious isn't in your vocabulary, is it?" he replied in the same, light mocking tone.

"Oh, shut up and go to sleep," she said, swatting his arm.

"Yes, milady."

Minutes later she felt him drift off and was alone with her thoughts. 

Her destiny

TBC.


	9. Part One: The Vision

Guardians of Treasures Untold 

Part One: 9/10.

Author: Nefret24

Disclaimers and notes, see part 1-8.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Roxton awoke slowly as the first rays of sunlight began to shine through the small window. He stretched his arms to find the bed empty. Forcing himself to sit up, he surveyed the room- she wasn't there. 

Irrationally worried, he paused to put on his trousers before going out into the common rooms to look for her. 

"Marguerite?" he called out softly, for fear of waking the others.

The slight ruffle of leaves to his right alerted him to her presence out on the balcony. 

"Up so early?" he said as he joined her at the railing.

"Well, you know what they say, early bird catches the worm," she replied half-heartedly, not looking at him.

He frowned at her response as the hairs on his neck began to prick up. Marguerite's moods may be capricious, but if the past three years had taught him anything, it was that they were not without a logic of their own. Something had happened since last night and he was determined to find out what. 

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing." She toyed absentmindedly with her locket, running it up and down its slim chain. 

"Marguerite"

"Nothing!- nothing of any importance anyway. I just couldn't sleep much last night," she said exasperatedly, turning around to put her back up against the rail. She looked up at his face and noticed the concern writ on his features. "Not your fault, Roxton."

He suppressed a sigh of relief but the concern remained. She still wasn't herself since her accidents. "Was it your head? Challenger said that with injuries such as these"

"It's not my bloody head!" she hissed. "I had a dream, alright?"

"A nightmare?"

"Not quite. I don't know what it was, a dream, a vision, a memory" she threw her hands up in disgust. 

"Maybe I can help. The least I could do is tell you if it happened- if it is a memory," he said softly, taking one of her hands into his own. "You can trust me, you know. 

She looked up at him then, and the sheer gratitude and surprise he beheld in her eyes nearly overwhelmed him. 

She didn't know how to respond. She heard his voice inside her head -- "_all_ _your secrets will be safe with me_" — but she couldn't place it. Had he said that to her? Had she imagined it?

She had spent the remainder of the night deep in thought, trying to make sense of the muddle her mind had become. Bits and pieces of her memory had come back but none of them fit together. Nothing made sense, least of all Roxton. He seemed to be everything that was perfect, _perfect for her_, and it unnerved her. How could it be, after a lifetime of heartache and betrayal, that this one man so conveniently appeared to fulfill her every desire?

Her past without him was the only thing she was certain of: beware of Greeks bearing gifts.

And yet, as she had told Veronica, she believed he was a good man. That she could trust him. She had even gone so far as to make up her mind to confide in him but now, faced with the actual proposition of doing so, she faltered. 

"I-" she began and stammered, looking away from him again. "This is ridiculous. It was _just_ a dream"

"What happened? Was it on the plateau?"

"No. No, it wasn't," she replied, her brow furrowing with thought. "It was in England."

"London during the war?"

"No, much earlier I think but there was fighting- women screaming, houses on fire, chaos everywhere and and a storm. There was a thunderstorm coming- I couldn't stop it," she shook her head in frustration. She wouldn't tell him about the end of the dream. She couldn't she felt a wave of nausea and swallowed hard. 

"Who was it, who was fighting?" he asked tentatively, a sinking feeling developing in the pit of his stomach.

"The Druids," she replied in an awed voice.

He looked at her for a few moments, not knowing what to say. The man had said it was her destiny He was more inclined to believe that Bochra was taking advantage of Marguerite's temporary amnesia in order to save his own hide. "Do you believe that- or do you want to believe what Bochra tells you?" he asked in a tight, quiet voice.

"I don't know," came the whispered reply. "I saw something something terrible and so _real_ I don't know what to think."

Roxton read her features as only he could after years of assiduous study. "You're going to do it, aren't you? You're going to help him- you don't even remember him!"

"Neither do you," she shot back defensively.

"Well, I guess I could come along"

"To keep me honest?" she finished, feeling an odd sense of _deja vu_ again. 

He grinned down at her and kissed her forehead lightly. "Shall we see if the patient's awake?"

She nodded eagerly in reply.

They found Challenger in Bochra's room, checking his bandages. 

"Veronica told me about his late night adventure so I thought I had better check on him a bit early this morning," he said by way of greeting. Returning to his patient, he shook a stern finger. "You shouldn't be getting up out of bed in your condition. You're damn well lucky you didn't open those wounds again."

Bochra grimaced at his doctor and shot a hopeful look at Marguerite. "I trust you have thought about what I have told you?"

"I have."

"And you will assist me- us?"

"I will–"

"But not without assistance of her own," Roxton added, folding his arms and looking down at Bochra formidably. Bochra himself nodded solemnly in reply, a tacit understanding passing between the two men. 

"What the devil are you two planning now?" Challenger eyed his companions warily. "Marguerite should still be resting- her memory hasn't fully recovered yet. And I have some serious reservations about how you could possibly time-travel with such accuracy as this man claims to do. The laws of physics clearly state that."

"George, if I have to listen to one of your scientific lectures before I have my morning coffee, I will add you to the list of invalids in this treehouse," Marguerite interrupted curtly. 

"Not to mention that not even the laws of physics could explain all that happens on this plateau," Roxton added with a grin.

"You underestimate the scope of scientific principles," Challenger said archly, gathering up ends of bloodied gauze and standing up. "I'll be in the lab- let me know before you do anything rash."

"You have accepted the situation, I see," Bochra said to Marguerite as soon as Challenger left the room.

"I don't see that I had any choice, it being my _destiny_," Marguerite commented blithely. 

"You still question your faith. We both know that it is folly to do so; it wastes precious time."

"Speaking of which, how long do we have before Marguerite's destiny catches up with her?" Roxton asked testily. He was determined to remain wary of the injured man and grew annoyed that Marguerite (of all people!) seemed readily inclined to believe him. 

"Can you not see it already has?"

A pregnant silence fell over the three. Finally, Marguerite burst out huffily, "Fine! Fine. So my destiny is now. Lovely. What do we _do_ about it?"

Bochra produced a raspy discordant sound indicative of soft laughter. "You must go to my time and do what I could not."

"That old story about the temple trespassers again. How about this time you tell me who–and how!"

"I don't know _how_ they managed it–there is dark magic that even I cannot comprehend."

"And you bloody expect her to?" Roxton exclaimed angrily. "You're crazy!"

"She is the Chosen One, the priestess of her people," Bochra replied, annoyed with Roxton's disbelief and interference. "She will know."

"Yes, well, she will know much easier if you would condescend to explain who the hell is not allowed in the bloody temple!" Marguerite shouted. Between the one speaking in riddles and the other acting like an overprotective, jealous fool, she had just about had it with the both of them. If it was her destiny, then let her have it and be done with it, instead of prolonging the inevitable with irritating arguments barely passing for civilized conversation. 

"I do not know his name. He leads the Shadow Men and he brings a storm of darkness to the pyramid of light." 

Marguerite did not meet Roxton's concerned look. Coincidences happen- the storms couldn't possibly be the same. And yet her gut told her otherwise. 

"You must travel two days to the west until you reach that place where I visited you last, near the quarry. The altar remains standing there. My staff will unlock the door to the other realm." He motioned for them to come closer and fixed an imploring gaze on the couple.

"You must leave immediately. There is not much time left before the portal closes forever and nothing can reverse it. I cannot travel the distance required, I know that now," he said pitifully, and took Marguerite's hand. "I entrust you to Lord John Roxton's care. He must accompany you since I have failed." He placed her hand into Roxton's, enclosing the couple's hands with his own. "He will protect you."

"I know," Marguerite replied softly, entranced by the warmth of the fingers clasping hers. Clearing her throat self-consciously, she changed the subject abruptly. "What about Veronica? Didn't you say it was her destiny too?"

"She must stay here. Her path lies on a different road and her time has not yet come," Bochra replied tiredly, withdrawing his hands.

"Well, unless there are any more cryptic tidbits you'd like to impress me with," Roxton said, slowly releasing Marguerite's hand, "then I'd better tell everyone else what's going on. We'll want to head out soon to make the most of the daylight."

Marguerite nodded to Roxton's retreating form but did not move from Bochra's side. 

"You are troubled, my dear?"

"I had this dream," she began hesitantly. 

"You are frightened by what you have seen."

"Is it the future? If these men do what you fear, will there be rioting and fighting and a storm?"

"Marguerite, listen to me and listen well: you have been privileged to see that which most cannot. This gift is not given to many and like all power, is dangerous if not respected and used responsibly."

"These things which I have seen- can they be prevented?"

"That is your choice and yours alone. I give you this warning: visions of the future are not always fulfilled; destiny can only do so much and only for those willing to accept it. Human choices shape and change the future all the time."

"Thank you," Marguerite said, kissing his temple lightly. 

She hoped he was right and the horrible denouement of the dream replayed in her mind, causing her queasy feeling to return. No! She would not let that happen! As she began to pack for her journey, she decided that she would do anything in her power to stop the outcome of her terrible vision, the last and most terrifying scene that belonged in her worst nightmares the death of Lord John Roxton. 

TBC


	10. Part One: The Portal Opens

Guardians of Treasures Untold 

Part One: 10/10.

Author: Nefret24

Disclaimer and notes, see parts 1-9.

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"Be careful, Roxton," Veronica said, closing up his knapsack and handing it to him. "I still don't trust that man."

"Don't worry— neither do I," he replied with a thankful grin, slinging the pack onto his pack. His expression quickly turned solemn and he searched her face with concerned eyes. "If there's any trouble"

"We can handle it," Finn replied for Veronica, brandishing her crossbow. 

"Silly of me to think otherwise," he mumbled gruffly, smiling weakly as the tip of Finn's weapon swung in his direction. "Just the same"

"We'll be careful too, promise," Veronica said, before enveloping him a hug. 

Roxton was touched at the openness of her concern and found himself relishing their short embrace, oddly reminded of his mother. This was his family, there was no other. He pulled away quickly, remembering himself, and clearing his throat loudly, adjusted his hat.

"Best be going then."

Veronica hid a smirk, finding humor at the hunter's embarrassed sentimentality. 

Challenger came into the room, bearing a set of their signaling mirrors. "Just in case," he said, transferring them to Roxton. "I hope you know what you're doing. Supernatural or not, something foul is afoot." 

An impatient shout reverberated from the other room. "Roxton!" 

"She's been ready to leave for the last ten minutes," Challenger said wryly, shaking his head. "You'd better not keep her waiting."

They shook hands formally and then the younger man headed towards the shrill commands emanating from the other room. 

"Geez, guys, don't look so gloomy. It's not like anything's gonna happen to him!" Finn scoffed, tossing aside her crossbow, newly polished. 

"Finn, I devoutly hope you're right," Challenger said with a solemn nod to the open doorway. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"What the devil was taking you so long?" Marguerite stomped her way through the underbrush, trying to control her increasing exasperation with her traveling companion.

"I was saying goodbye. I noticed you didn't bother to take the trouble"

"Why should I? Who are they to me?" she flippantly returned, inwardly cursing herself for negligence. She might be coldhearted, but rag-tag family or no, she at the very least owed them a simple 'thank you' before departure. 

"I'm going to pretend that I didn't hear that considerably conceited and callous remark."

"That would be unworthy of them," she nodded in agreement nastily.

"No, that would be unworthy of **you**," he replied sternly. "Not to mention ungracious, unkind--"

"I get it, all right? I get it," she conceded angrily. "Here," she stopped abruptly and thrust Bochra's staff at him. "You deal with this. I'll take the rifle."

"Hardly a fair trade," he mumbled, exchanging his burden for hers. As he accepted the staff, he looked at it. Curious. To be wrought from gold and yet be so light

They made their way slowly westward, not making much conversation. Roxton remained wary of the Shadow Men and kept careful track of his surroundings and the trail. He requested that Veronica take extra precaution when she left the treehouse if she left the treehouse. He'd prefer to quarantine all of them, including his temperamental lady love and her fantastical ideas of destiny, until he was certain that those things had disappeared. Or he had shot them all. As it was, their supplies were still low. How long they could last and in _this_ weather

The heat was becoming unbearable. His shirt stuck to him and he could see Marguerite's forehead was slicked with sweat. And yet, he was the one who had to force **her** to rest periodically. She had that same determined glint in her eye that brooked no argument and all argument, especially when it was employed in her recent past pursuits of gemstones. It took a long harangue to convince her to camp for the night.

He had gone to fetch more wood for the fire and found Marguerite sitting on a fallen tree trunk nearby. He smiled and sat down close to her, only to have her inch sideways in the opposite direction and the smile disappear.

He shot her a sideways glance. "Room enough for two, I'm sure," he said blithely.

"Close quarters," she returned in kind.

"And what's wrong with that? You didn't mind last night" he goaded her, dipping his voice seductively.

"I don't know anything, John!" she burst out, releasing all the bottled up emotions and confused thoughts that had tormented her in the past few hours. She wrung her hands in her lap and concentrated on them as she continued, "Last night was an aberration in so many"

"It was wrong?"

She winced at his word and the hurt tone that had pronounced it. "No. But it wasn't right," she said softly.

"Well, I think that about exhausts our options!" Roxton retorted loudly, rising from his seat. Not to mention my patience, he thought angrily to himself. "What do you want from me, Marguerite?"

She said nothing in reply, her head still bowed over her hands. 

"One minute you're inviting me into your bed and the next, I repulse you! There's just no pleasing you, is there? I don't care how hard you hit your head, you can't treat people this way! Especially when all they want to do is help!"

She still did not look at him.

"I'll make your decision easy for you. I'll take you to your precious altar and make sure you get back to the treehouse safe and sound- I promised Bochra I would and you certainly do trust him, don't you? And then you do as you wish. You always do- without any consideration for anyone else," he ended bitterly. 

He strode to the opposite side of the fire and laid a blanket down, shaking it out of his pack with vehemence. Then he arranged himself atop it, giving Marguerite the full view of the back of his head, fairly radiating anger, hurt and disapproval with her.

Marguerite visibly shook from head to toe and was both immensely grateful for and terribly depressed by his disdain. The dream was a warning, she had determined. Whether or not it was the actual events of the future, well, that remained to be seen, didn't it? But it was a probability and that scared her. And what scared her more was the possibility that she had caused it— a proposal only slightly less terrifying than her sudden altruistic fervor to somehow stop it, even at the threat of her own life. 

If it's your time to go, it's your time to go. That's what they said during the War, didn't they? She couldn't have him try and save her— she knew what she was— and it would go against every principle she had to surrender up her life for a man. Learn your lesson from Shanghai, girl, and disentangle yourself now, she told herself. With every step westward, the more resolved she had become. Easier for all involved if we were at odds safer

It had been so much less painful when she had worked it out in her head. 

Two single tears managed to escape down her cheeks before she managed to control her convulsions. Her head ached, along with other portions of her abused anatomy, most notably that which had been rubbing up on a rather gnarled tree root for an extended period of time. Gingerly rising, she made her own bed and fell into a fitful sleep.

__

The fires raged on and the dark night sky became obscure with smoke. Swift winds whipped around, howling, fanning the flames higher and higher. Wooden beams cracked and fell to the earth; houses tumbled to the ground in ashen rubble.

She couldn't see, her eyes stung from the smoke and her hair danced around her face, enchanted by the wind. She could hear them cry out in pain. Children, there were children crying 

She ran, ran as fast as she could, her lungs protesting at the effort there were more of them, faces dark with soot, blurred- running, running, running, fleeing for their very lives- their faces the portrait of terror. She could not stop to help could not stop until she saw **him**. 

A faceless man dressed in black who seemed to mock her by his very presence, standing by an altar. He twirled a knife idly with his fingers as if it were a child's toy. It swung precariously back and forth, back and forth over the altar over the body of a man hovering ever so close to his throat a foreigner with foreign clothes and plunged a dagger into his heart as she screamed—--

Marguerite jerked awake. The dream was becoming worse. Thankful for the hint of light just peering over the horizon, she let out a thankful sigh. Too late to go back to sleep and have it repeat itself. Might as well get up. 

She made coffee and drank it slowly as sunlight began to creep in through the trees. Roxton stirred and she froze, ashamed to have caught herself contemplating his sleeping form with more intent than her now cold coffee.

He shifted and rolled onto his opposite side, now facing her. Moments later an eyelid opened and shut again. Then both eyes opened and subsequently closed. 

"I must be suffering from heat stroke. Before dawn and Marguerite's awake?" he said disbelieving. 

"Unless you'd like your coffee poured down your shirt, I propose you get up as well," she retorted before retreating behind her mug. 

He did as he was told, slowly rising from his blanket and stretching his stiff limbs, obscuring his smirk from her view. 

She watched him over the rim of her mug, appreciating how his muscles pressed against his thin shirt as he stretched. She gave herself a shake— how did she know what was real in her past with him? She watched him curiously as he raised his arm and rolled his shoulder, warming up the muscles. He rubbed it with his other hand- had it been sore, she wondered. A scar, some part of her brain fired off. He had been shot there once 

Roxton chanced a glance over at Marguerite. She had a faraway look in her eyes, blinked once, and then, noticing him, indicating his cup at the fireside with a raised brow and slight nod. 

They drank their coffee in silence, the only noise the slight rustling of leaves and the gentle early morning calls of various species of birds. 

Roxton emptied the dregs of his coffee into a nearby bush. "We better get moving. It's gonna be another scorcher, today. We won't be able to travel in the afternoon."

"Let's get going then," she agreed heartily, pulling on her knapsack with one hand and picking up the rifle with the other.

Without prompting he lifted Bochra's staff once again and followed Marguerite's lead. Why was she letting him carry it? It surely must be expensive- and it wasn't that heavy, awkward a bit but not when used as intended- as a walking stick- why wouldn't she covet it? Bloody mine it, like the old Marguerite would have done. He couldn't figure it out. He thought she had regressed back to her old self, the Marguerite that had made those first weeks of the expedition such an exasperating adventure. But then she did things that didn't fit 

It was just like Marguerite. Just when he thought he had her figured out, amnesia! There had been no "old" Marguerite or "new" Marguerite- she was the same, always the same, just hidden underneath so many protective layers that the real her couldn't be seen. And now he had to re-learn all the tell-tale signs of the layers (the tricks and the sighs and the subtle inflections) all over again, though now twice as confusing because even **she** didn't know what they all meant. 

After his outburst last night, he considered giving up but he couldn't do it. He knew as soon as the words left his mouth that they were empty threats. He was a goner now. He had always been— though now at least he could admit it to himself. He loved her— but God Almighty, she was a challenge. 

A strange noise from Marguerite stunned him out of his reverie. She pointed at a clearing up ahead.

"Look!"

"I don't believe it," he muttered. There stood a stone altar surrounded by a ring of five pairs of large standing stones, each pair topped with a massive stone lintel. 

Marguerite was first to reach the site and stood tentatively outside the ring awaiting Roxton's approach.

"Well, what are you waiting for? This is it, isn't it?" he said close to her ear. 

She shot him a glare but her eyes quickly returned to the altar. She seemed focused on it. When she spoke, her voice was soft and shook. "Can't you feel it— it's like the stones are _alive_"

"Fairy tales and hokum. You put too much faith in that bedridden old man," he scoffed, stepping into the circle carrying the staff. "See- nothing at all---"

He broke off as a gust of wind blew outward from the center of the ring. Marguerite felt herself straining against the force of the air, firmly digging her heels into the ground lest she be brought unwillingly into the circle.

"Margueeeerrrriiiiite!" Roxton cried out. The wind howled mightily around him and the ground began to shake.

She looked uncertainly at him. The power, the force she felt it frightened her. She knew that once she entered the circle their fates were sealed— they would have to go through with it

Then she heard it. A faint whisper at first, growing steadily louder. A song the lilting female voice that she swore she had heard somewhere, sometime before calling her

She stepped into the circle. The winds grew stronger as she came to Roxton's side. 

"What's going on? How do we get out of this?" he shouted to be heard over the noisy gale.

"By going forward," she shouted back, as before the altar a light began to appear. It grew into a large portal, glistening with light and vibrating with wind and pure energy.

"I hope you know what we're getting into!" he said, squinting against the strong glow. 

She took his empty hand into his and interlocked their fingers. Their eyes met for an instant— each knew what to do.

They stepped through the portal and did not look back.

END PART ONE. 

More to come!

A/N: As a side note, I'd like to mention that I've just seen Travelers (finally!) and gosh darn it! Hiding the jewels in the flour jar, yeah, okay, but the ice box! My hats off to the writers and my sincere apologies for unintentionally ripping off the concept — I steal for good, a Robin Hood of fanfic, if you will ;P 

Another A/N: Major thanks to all who've reviewed as well as those who have read and have not. All feedback remains sincerely appreciated and coveted. Not to mention an effective tool for getting more chapters more frequently 


	11. Part Two: Meeting the Wise Woman

Guardians of Treasures Untold 

Part Two: 1/? (11)

Author: Nefret24

Disclaimers and notes, see part 1, 1/10.

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PART TWO

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"What can you lose? Only the blues.

Why keep concealing everything you're feeling?

Say it to her, what can you lose?

Maybe it shows– she's had clues, which she chose to ignore.

Maybe though she knows, and just wants to go on as before.

As a friend, nothing more.

So she closes the door.

Well, if she does, those are the dues.

Once the words are spoken, something may be broken.

Still you love her – what can you lose?

But what if she goes?

At least now, you have part of her.

What if she had to choose?

Leave it alone – hold it on in

Better a bone don't even begin with so much to win,

There's too much to lose." ~ Stephen Sondheim, _What Can You Lose_. 

"The tragedy of this world is that everyone is alone. For a life in the past cannot be shared with the present. Each person who gets stuck in time gets stuck alone." ~ Alan Lightman, Einstein's Dreams

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Light. Wind. Nothingness. 

During an instant in time that felt like hours the only thing either one could trust implicitly was the sensation of the other's hand clutching their own, fingers interlocked tightly, reassuringly. Warm. Real. 

An explosion of color. They fell forward together, stumbling, their bodies crashing hard onto cold earth. 

Marguerite tasted blood. Gingerly, she shifted, pulling her hand out from underneath her and reached up to her face. Her fingertips revealed small red stains from contact with her lower lip. She grimaced, slowly raising herself to a sitting position.

Roxton fared little better. He rubbed his chest where he had fallen on Bochra's staff which had remained unbroken. The better to hobble with, he thought disgustedly, setting it aside. He rose to his feet with a grunt and outstretched a hand to Marguerite. She gratefully accepted it and came shakily to her feet.

They looked around them, surrounded in all directions by open fields and muddy, rolling hills. The sky was gray and overcast, and the horizon was free from marks. No trees. No animals. Nothing.

"Where the hell are we?" 

"It's _your_ destiny, **Priestess**," Roxton replied, readjusting his pack on his back. "Don't you know?"

"You're the one with the stick," she returned haughtily, scanning the horizon. "Why don't you do something with it?"

"I know what I'd like to do with it" he groused, stooping to pick the staff up off the ground. 

"I'd like to see you try--" she snarled but quickly silenced herself. "Do you hear that?" she asked in hushed tones.

"It sounds like horses," he said, disbelieving.

"How many?"

"More than one," he said, reaching for his holster instinctively. Marguerite picked up the rifle from where it lay on the ground. 

"Where are they? I still don't see anything," she said, a tremor entering her voice as she loaded the gun. 

"There!" he pointed in the opposite direction, and sure enough, six men on horseback were headed their way.

"They look awfully close" she muttered warily.

"That's because they **are** awfully close," he replied in kind, not removing his guns just yet but with a hand at the ready.

"How did we not see them?!"

Roxton's reply was cut off by the riders' approach. They halted to a stop with one horse and rider foremost. All the men wore brown robes like Bochra's, their faces masked by drawn hoods. Their leader threw back his with a quick gesture to reveal a forbidding countenance with deep, inset eyes and thin lips set into an expression of distaste. 

"State your allegiance!" he barked without introduction. 

Marguerite and Roxton shared an anxious look before Roxton responded, protectively stepping in front of her, "We claim none- we are strangers to this land."

The leader slowly looked them up and down, grimacing. "Your garments are unfamiliar- from where do you hail?" he questioned suspiciously.

"Good question," Marguerite muttered under her breath as Roxton replied, "We have come from a jungle plateau"

At this the man laughed, a harsh grating sound. "Do you take me for a fool? Or do you wish for an early grave?" He drew a sword and held it before Roxton, the point aimed at his chest. "There are no jungles or plateaus in this part of the world. Again, I ask you: state your allegiance or perish on this spot!"

Marguerite glared at Roxton, who was fingering his holster warily. He had to be crazy- they were obviously itching for a fight and outnumbered them 10 to 2. A stand would be impossible, if not messy, painful and distastrous for them. Her nostrils flared with impatience as the two men settled for staring one another down, each refusing to budge. 

She stepped forward, pushing aside the man's sword and Roxton's protective arm. In a swift stroke, she grabbed the staff from Roxton's opposite hand. "How dare you speak to him with such disrespect! Look at his staff- do you not know whose this is? We are allies of Bochra and we demand that you take us to the temple at once!" she ordered imperiously, wielding the staff in front of her as if it were a weapon. 

The horseman started and murmurs arose from the throng of riders behind him. He called for their silence and observed the strangers again with a raised brow. "What are your names, strangers?"

"I am Marguerite Krux, and this is **Lord** John Roxton. You owe him an apology," she sniffed disdainfully as Roxton put a cautionary hand on her arm and spoke low in her ear. 

"Don't overdo it."

Taken aback by her continued boldness, the horseman eyed her askance and nodded to Roxton, who replied with an inclination of his head. "I'll take what I can get," he murmured to her again. 

"There is a village not far from here. You will come with us now," he said, and after letting out a shrill whistle, began to ride off towards the opposite direction from which he had come.

A rider from the back dismounted and led his horse forward for them. Roxton mounted and gave Marguerite a hand up to sit in front of him as the rider found a new companion. They followed the path of the throng, aware that a few riders had hung back for them, ostensibly to watch their behavior. 

"So far I'm not impressed by their hospitality," she said, shifting in the saddle to get a better view of the land, still unmarked by monuments or wildlife. 

"I don't think we impressed them much either," he said, making a half-hearted attempt to make light of their new situation. 

"You told him we came from the jungle- he probably thinks we're the village idiots."

He merely grunted in reply and urged the horse slightly ahead to the nearest rider. "Excuse me er.. friend, but what land is this?"

The rider, taken off guard, muttered disdainfully with his nearest companion in a language Roxton couldn't understand before answering. "There are some who speak your tongue that call it England." He quickly rode further ahead of them, no doubt speaking ill of the over-curious foreigners. 

"He said we were in England-- " she began hopefully as Roxton rejoined her side. before they were enveloped in a thick fog. She instinctively clutched at Roxton's shirtfront.

"This fog certainly _reminds_ me of England," he agreed, slowing the horse to a trot. 

They made their way uncertainly, having lost sight of all their traveling companions and barely able to see one another. And then, almost as soon as it came, it was gone. The mists lifted to reveal a series of wooden huts in the distance, and still further, a series of stone structures, half obscured by low-hanging clouds.

The riders dispersed in all directions, leaving Marguerite and Roxton alone in the midst of a village street with the head horseman.

"I will leave you here. That house," he pointed over his shoulder at one of the huts, "belongs to a very wise woman, Hatha by name. We shall see if your story is true," he ended darkly, and giving his horse a short kick, rode off. 

They dismounted and scanned the streets, empty of all inhabitants. "A real hot spot," Roxton commented dryly.

"I don't like this," Marguerite said, a shiver running down her spine. The village looked so familiar exactly like _her dream._

"Well, we're here- we might as well get this over with. Come on," he said, taking up the staff and the rifle and handing her the former. 

They came to the door of the hut and knocked three times. "Hope someone's home," Marguerite whispered.

The door opened to reveal darkness within. Hesitantly they both stepped forward into the house. Seeing a light in the far left corner, they approached it, a fire with a black cauldron boiling a pungent soup.

"Dinner?" Roxton inquired softly, looking warily at the brownish liquid within the pot.

"I hope not," Marguerite replied, wrinkling her nose fastidiously. She turned to scan the room and gasped, involuntarily clutching Roxton's arm as she saw a bulky shadow shift in the light of the fire.

"So you've come at last," a coarse voice spoke from the dark. A woman stepped forward into the light, motioning towards two chairs near the fire with a gnarled finger. "Sit down, sit down."

Hatha lowered herself carefully into a chair opposite them. She did not look as old as she sounded- her face was almost free of wrinkles. Her hair was curly and gray, the bulk of it coiled at the base of her neck with unruly strands straggling onto her shoulders. She looked at them both intently, silently assessing, before she spoke.

"I thought you would be taller, Lord John Roxton."

"How do you know his name?" Marguerite asked defensively.

"My dear Marguerite, I know everything about you and your consort."

"My WHAT?" -- "Her WHAT?" Their voices simultaneously burst out with consternation, he at the inferior term, she at its implications. 

"I was certain" the old woman began with a smile, waving a hand between the two of them.

"Madam Hatha he is NOT my we are good _friends_," Marguerite said pointedly.

Roxton, more confused by the minute, couldn't conceal the slight look of hurt at the comment from Hatha. She smiled to herself and nodded, feigning acquiescence. 

"Yes, yes. The important thing is that you have come. I will dispatch Setes to find suitable quarters for you for the night."

"I assume that was the dark and brooding fellow who just left us on your doorstep?" Marguerite asked wryly.

"He is not perhaps the most outwardly agreeable, no. But he is loyal and a great warrior. I'm afraid, my dears, that you have come during perilous times," she shook head. "Decent men are hard to find. Many no longer support the old ways and would do anything to destroy them."

"And I take it you consider this Setes to be a decent man?" Roxton inquired.

"Yes, I do. If he has not made a favorable impression well, all I ask is that you both take the time to reassess him. And an additional caution to not make your judgements lightly-- no one is what they seem," she warned.

"Even you?" Marguerite ventured saucily.

Hatha laughed lightly but did not reply. 

"If you know us so well, then, what are we to do here?" Roxton asked, unimpressed. "Your confederate was decidedly vague upon the subject."

"The fate of these people rests upon the edge of a knife. You've met Setes- how little do you suppose would incite him to violence? And yet he is one of the more level-headed. No one ventures from their homes, they are consumed with fear."

"Fear of what?"

"It is not easy to explain There is a power struggle of sorts throughout the land. Right now, we are leaderless, though there are many with ambitions. In two days time, however, a leader will be chosen."

"Let me guess- at a mysterious temple, location unknown," Marguerite interrupted wryly.

"It stands at the edge of the town," Hatha replied calmly with a raised eyebrow. "The thick mists of our land do tend to obscure things," she added, patronizingly patting Marguerite's hand. "Anyway, you can do little else tonight."

Almost as if it had been pre-planned, a knocking at the door sounded as the old woman finished speaking. "Ah. There's Setes now," she rose slowly to her feet, giving the couple an enigmatic smile before making her way to the door.

The two villagers spoke in low voices, inaudible to both hunter and heiress. She returned to them as the sullen rider stood fixed at the door. "Everything is arranged," she said cheerfully upon rejoining them. "Lord John Roxton, go with Setes- he will guide you to your new quarters and give you something more appropriate to wear. You will stay with me, my dear," she said to Marguerite with a mysterious smile.

Roxton reluctantly rose to meet his guide, his eyes fixed upon Marguerite's. He was loath to be separated from her but duly exited the small hut with the brooding rider. 

"Just the two of us, now. How cozy," Marguerite said over-brightly. 

"You have nothing to fear from me, Marguerite. Do not be anxious over him- I give you my word that he is in good hands," Hatha said, stirring her soup. 

"I'm not"

"Your looks betray your feelings quite clearly my dear. As do his." She paused to taste the soup and grimaced. "Too hot," she mumbled and continued to stir. "What intrigues me is why you both chose to deny it."

"There is nothing to deny!" Nothing that I can remember, Marguerite amended silently.

The old woman chuckled once more and asked for a jar resting on a small table at Marguerite's side. Marguerite fastidiously wrinkled her nose as she handed the earthenware to the old woman; she never thought that any stew could smell worse than her own feeble attempts with raptor meat. 

Hatha removed the top and began to sprinkle some of its contents into the cauldron. "I pity Bochra."

"Pardon me?" asked Marguerite, confused, her thoughts still preoccupied by the contents of the mysterious stew. 

"The eternal optimist. He has been trying for centuries and several reincarnations now to get you two to set aside your differences. I always thought he was a fool for trying. Some people are just born contrary." 

"A Druid matchmaker. Great, just great," Marguerite muttered, rising to pace angrily within the limited space of the hut. 

Hatha laughed quietly to herself, stirring her stew. Marguerite's frustrate steps continued until she abruptly stopped in front of the fire again. "I'm sorry- what the blazes IS that you're cooking?!"

"Don't worry, my dear, I assure you it's not your dinner. In fact, there will be a reception for you and your _friend_ this evening-- you ought to change."

"Change? Into what?"

"There are clothes laid out on the chair behind you just to your left. There you go," the old woman remarked as Marguerite held the garment out in front of her. "I knew you were coming of course "

As Hatha continued to chat pleasantly, mostly to herself it seemed, regarding the final preparations of whatever mixture she was concocting, Marguerite took refuge in the shadows of the room to get dressed. The long red dress seemed vaguely familiar it had a wide open neck and a belt that slung low over the hips and clasped in the center with gold hooks molded into snakes. At least it was somewhat fashionable, she thought as she adjusted her skirt. 

The belt was curious, though Intertwining snakes It reminded her of the ouroborus- though why it should, she couldn't understand. The repetition of the snake or dragon in world mythologies was striking all the more reason that it didn't necessarily mean that one silly belt with a singular design should mean something out of the ordinary, she upbraided herself. Maybe they just like snakes. 

She shot a glance over her shoulder at the elderly woman, still fussing with her cauldron. Batty old witch, Marguerite thought, pursing her lips. Why can't any of these silly people speak plainly? The fact that everything was buried under metaphors and veiled hints and curious coincidences sent off alarm bells in her head. Why the hell had she decided to do this? And bring Roxton into it too? 

"Dearie-- come! The feast is starting"

TBC


	12. Part Two: The Feast Begins

Guardians of Treasures Untold

Part Two: 2/? (12)

Author: Nefret24

Disclaimers and notes, see part 1.

"Hey Challenger- c'mere a second," Finn waved to the professor anxiously, motioning for him to come closer to where she stood by the kitchen.

"Finn, I cannot possibly imagine what you could tell me that you couldn't say with me sitting down over there," he grumbled, folding his book closed on one finger, marking his place.

"You won't believe this. The guy-" she jerked a thumb in the direction of Bochra's room- "He asked for a bowl of water," Finn said conspiratorially, raising one eyebrow.

"Recovery from severe injury can leave one dehydrated, Finn. I see nothing unbelievable in that the poor man is thirsty," Challenger scoffed, opening his book to make further notations.

"No, Challenger- listen to me: he asked for a **bowl **of water... not a glass or a cup but a **bowl**... and then didn't drink a drop! Who asks for a bowl of water just to stare at it?" Finn threw her hands up in exasperation. "Guy's nuts, if you ask me."

"A bowl of water?"

"Yep."

"Hmmm... it is believed, in some cultures, that staring into a pool of still water can provide the seer with visions."

"You mean, like staring at a crystal ball?"

"Similar methods have been usurped by charlatans of cheap thrills," Challenger said, nodding.

"So, like, d'ya think he's actually gonna **see** something in there or what?" Finn asked, narrowing her eyes skeptically in the direction of the occupied bedroom.

"Other than his own reflection... the bottom of the bowl," he quipped and took up his former seat, bending his head over his book with a deeper concentration, hoping Finn would take the hint and leave him in peace.

"VEE!"

"Child, one of these days we will teach you how to speak in a normal tone of voice," muttered Challenger as Finn rushed to the balcony, waving her arms frantically to Veronica, who was hard at work in the garden. She smiled up at Finn and waved back cheerfully.

"Vee, I need to talk to you."

"Can it wait? I really want to finish up out here. We're going to need to be careful that our vegetables don't die on us in this heat," she pointed out, squinting up at the treehouse balcony before going back to pulling weeds.

"Yeah, sure," Finn called back, dispiritedly. "Geez. I hope Marguerite and Roxton get back fast," Finn muttered to herself underneath her breath. "This place is getting boring." She moved to the doorway of the back bedroom where Bochra was resting or seeing things or re-hydrating himself and listened for signs of any of the above.

"Miss Finn?" she heard his voice call out.

In sheer surprise, her head jerked up quickly, hitting a low beam. Muffling her curses and rubbing her head, she entered his room. "You called? And it's just Finn. None of this 'miss' stuff, I told you before," she pointed out childishly, waiting to see what he wanted.

He did not speak, nor made any motion towards her or the bowl that remained on his lap.

"Well, are you seeing something or what?"

Laughter spread out on his grizzled face. "You're very curious, aren't you? Would you like to assist me?"

"You're really going to have a vision?" she asked, open-mouthed.

"I hope to. Pull up a chair. You must promise to be quiet, it takes a great degree of concentration," he warned.

"Mum's the word, then," she promised eagerly, abruptly moving over a wooden chair and thumping down in it.

"You also might not see anything for quite some time. It takes patience, M-- Finn."

She compressed her lips together tightly and inched her chair forward slightly towards the bed. "It's either this or helping Challenger in his lab. I'll take this. I won't say a word, I swear."

"I cannot promise that _you_ will see anything. If I speak aloud, you must remember what I say. Can you do that? Good. And of course, I will share the vision with you when I am done."

"And if I have one, I'll tell you too," she said impatiently. "What do I do?"

"Sit. And watch the water. Wait."

Finn did as she was told, though a voice in the back of her head told her she would have been better off with Challenger's smelly experiments.

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Drumbeats led the women to where the feast was being held. Four great bonfires had been built, their flames shooting high in the air, lighting the entire area with a golden hue. Marguerite shivered at the abrupt temperature change as she approached, the warmth radiating from the field driving away the bitter chill of the night air. She was buffeted too, by an array of strange yet comforting smells: the burning wood and wet leaves, sickeningly sweet incense and freely flowing wine.

Musicians played instruments, the fires highlighting their clothes arrayed with semi-precious stones, belts, gorgets and ancient gems that sparked with the flames. Women and children robed in vibrant colors were dancing or reclining in groups on furs laid out on the ground, laughing and talking, picking morsels of food from large communal platters on nearby low tables.

Hardly the kind of people she had seen in her vision, screaming and writhing around in pain. These people were content, well nourished... and bejeweled, she noted, quelling the old mercenary instincts. Power struggle or no, they didn't seem to be that upset with the status quo.

Marguerite looked around in vain to find Roxton. _It figures_, she told herself disgustedly. _Probably off cavorting with the local women._ For some reason, that idea rang familiar. And because it seemed to fit with her patchy memory, she became more nonplussed.

Hatha seemed to sense her uneasiness. "The men sit apart at the beginning, dear. Over there," she pointed a crooked figure to two of the bonfires at the fringes of the field.

Marguerite recognized some of the faces of the men from earlier in the day. Their heavy armor was gone, replaced with short leather jackets and woolen tunics. She did not notice Roxton or the large man who had led him away among their number. Her anxiety swelled again, and she began to subtly scan the darkened huts beyond the field for any sign of her erstwhile companion.

"Here, here," Hatha tugged at her arm, depositing her on a series of rugs near one of the closer bonfires. "Sit. Sit and eat."

Marguerite slowly lowered herself to the ground, rearranging her red skirts and the soft furs underneath her. A giggling child approached her side and offered a bronze goblet filled with dark wine. She looked around for Hatha, assuming the offering was intended for the older woman, but she had vanished. So Marguerite accepted the cup herself with a wary smile, and picked meat from the bones of a small roasted pheasant. Until she had begun, she had forgotten how hungry she was.

Distracted by the wine and the warm food, the heat and the music, she did not notice when the men rose to admit new visitors to their circle. She did not notice either when they eventually dispersed, finding women with whom to bide time, in dancing, talking, or watching the children perform tumbling acts or pantomimes, some drifting off towards the nearby huts for enjoyment of a more private nature.

"Is this rug taken?" a voice rumbled over her head.

Turning quickly, she watched as Roxton claimed the seat beside hers. He had found new clothing too, now wearing a dark tunic similar in style to the other men's.

For his part, he had had no trouble noticing her amongst the throng of villagers. Her dark hair had melted into the darkness of the night, but her dress, its brazen color, snug fit and shining gold accessory, could hardly have been missed. She looked radiant, flushed with the firelight, her lips slightly apart in surprise at his sudden appearance at her side.

"I'll take that as a no," he said, crossing his legs in front of him.

"Well, you certainly took your time," she managed in a contemptuous tone, picking up her goblet and idly swirling its contents.

His eyes narrowed slightly, though with indignation or amusement she couldn't tell. Then he grinned and reached across her to grab a handful of candied fruit pieces from her plate.

"Hungry, were we?"

"Mmm," he murmured throatily, mouth full. She watched his throat as he swallowed, highlighted with the fire and corded with muscle. A shiver swept down her spine and she redirected her attention to the fire. "You would be too if you were out catching pheasant all afternoon."

"They forced you to hunt for the feast?"

"Not so much forced as asked politely for a bit of last minute assistance. I obliged, of course."

"Of course. So I take it that you and Setes have made friends?"

"Not exactly. Let's just say we've reached an understanding," he nodded at an acknowledgement from another man walking past. "I don't think they're the type to make friends easily. Whatever is going on, the men are taking it pretty seriously. It'll take more than a couple fowls to gain their trust."

"But whose trust do you want to gain? Setes'?" Marguerite asked pointedly, scanning the other groups of people. "Hatha specifically mentioned a power struggle- that they have no leader."

"You mean, are we backing the right horse? I have no idea. I don't even know who the competition is," Roxton said with a sigh, shifting position slightly to better see the rest of the fires.

"They're deliberately vague about everything. Hatha practically converses in riddles," Marguerite said in a low voice. "If Bochra is right, and I see no reason to doubt him, the entire existence of a group of people will be wiped out if we don't do... whatever it is we're supposed to do. And these people, they just don't seem like they're worried."

"Maybe they don't know about what's going on. Kept in the dark to prevent mass hysteria," Roxton offered.

"Or maybe it's not them we should be helping," Marguerite finished darkly, returning her gaze to Roxton.

He returned her gaze thoughtfully for a moment and then spoke. "Have you always been this cynical?"

"I'm the one with amnesia, remember?" she said, with a small smile.

Roxton shifted again on his rug, suddenly uncomfortable with the way the conversation was headed. She had been deliberately avoiding the subject all throughout their journey; each time he brought it up had coincided with a violent argument in which he continually found himself forced into the ridiculous position of disowning her (which he knew now that he could never do).

"Has anything seemed familiar?" he asked tentatively.

"Bits and pieces. But nothing here," she said mysteriously, looking into the fire, the wind blowing ringlets of her hair across her face as her brow crinkled with thought.

"So. What's the plan?"

"Don't ask me, Priestess. This is your mercy mission. I'm just along for the ride," he commented, provoking a glare and a surreptitious kick from her. "Right. We need to find someone who'll confide in us the details of the current political situation."

"I agree," Marguerite said, with a familiar gleam in her eye as she waved her hand to attract the attention of a small boy carrying a jug of wine. He approached and with a smile, she relieved him of his burden. "You know what they say, _in vino veritas_."

His stomach sunk a bit when he realized what she was proposing. But then, it always did work and he had no doubt that tonight, resplendent in red, she'd find her quarry ready and willing enough. "Fine. You charm the men, I'll dazzle the women."

Her laugh rang in his ears as they split up to roam amidst the others.

TBC...


End file.
